four-thirty a.m.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
this is what I want you to to see: leaves falling because it is too late for them not to
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
The storm passes without snow. The car waits loyally in the back lot.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering, a still shot in monochrome
He has stories that I am not in anymore. It’s healed this way.
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
the man is stayed bent over the canvas of my sofa. the man is me the man is him self and I bring down the whip…
You said it was okay to blame what goes wrong on the planet
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
I myself should never have been born