POETRY

“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
—Rita Dove
Finding My Fix

I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.

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.

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.

Fallout Shelter

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

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

close up of sun
Mercury in Retrograde

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

Babylon

If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray

“Artifact,” as Translated from Gluberhöff’s Lexicon

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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.

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.

melting ice cap
blue is the color of surrender

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

Dis Place Ment

People have always coped with flooding, and they learned to cope with death.

Clueless & Briefly Gorgeous

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.

The Body is a Sin

The sin is existing.

There is an alternative universe

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

Me and Other Bodily Accessories

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

woman at bar
After She Told Me You Pushed Her Down the Stairs

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

Letter To a Young Poet

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

things they won’t tell you but should:

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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.