POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
beach
On Undressing a Color / On Undressing a Girl

I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.

Several someones

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

Dear Deer in the Compost Pile

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

things they won’t tell you but should:

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

My Multiverses

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

Welcome To The House of Static

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

Lobster

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

The Man

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…

The love of my life moved from portland to new england

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Mom, in Her Dementia, Steals Oranges

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

Despairathon

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

The State School 1984 His Given Name Was Wilbur  We Called Him Magpie

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Time Travel

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

An Interview with Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.

necromancer woman, witch woman

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

3:17 AM as Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

Tea

my father holds
his favorite drink

I could, even now, go down to the water

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble