I create images that are narrative, featuring visual schematics, relying on juxtaposition for contrast or disjuncture.
You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
the search for a wayward self
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.
The sin is existing.
a wet world
I’msorry I‘ll see what happens iLife
How do you even know when you’re there—at the epicenter?
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”
Jenna says that he typically goes for redheads, so I run to Target and buy a box of hair dye.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
Dylan Krieger’s poetry is unflinching, grotesque, and beautiful. Her work tackles trauma, wrestles authority, and is a decadent sonic feast.
I know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.
Taking photographs of my hometown has given me a chance to reflect on people whom I have not valued.
The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.
Live the rest of your life
from one worst case to another.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
I have observed, the theorist
I point my camera towards B. Lovely and she is sitting on the curb.
my father holds
his favorite drink
If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.
ONLY THROUGH PAIN,
CAN WE TRULY FEEL ALIVE
Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.
The poetry of Brian S. Ellis unravels, inverts, investigates, and complicates. His poems are radical koans and invitations to forego common narratives.
It was an engagement of secrets in sunlit spaces.
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
I am not a guide
for every traveler
Through the dusty window in my parent’s bedroom, I watched the neighbor’s cattle graze.
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
Shadows and psychological metaphors are favored photographic subjects for me.
I run with a pack of older boys from our neighborhood, the only girl.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
She said I would find my perfect love when on the brink of death.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
I myself should never have been born
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…
we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held