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.
I have observed, the theorist I am
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then. Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I myself should never have been born
Every so often, they add a tattoo in honor of some long-forgotten love.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth, cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
my father holds his favorite drink
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
I am still waiting for the lion
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
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.
Millions of Americans have been affected by identity theft. It’s probably the greenhouse gases.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.