You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
Listen to me: I know the winter gloom in mid-summer…
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
Part of being a good sad person is always painting the shadows in the right direction and knowing what sorrow to art with.
I have an axe with hearts gashed
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
The collective failure of ethical standards
I buy too much, for someone of my stature. could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin. its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
I myself should never have been born
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night; should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.