so i drive 900 miles home too soon after the surgery, just to bleed on sheets i’ve seen before.
just to attest, yes, this is the look that gapes my mother’s face when i tell her out loud i never
want my womb to blessed be like hers, to dental patient open wide and bear the flowers of the
underworld, to clamor, crack, translucidate, all for an oligarchic demiurge whose grumbles i
know not, the deadbeat daddy behind hiroshima and cancer alley, behind the eyeball-eating
parasite and leprosy and lice—behind my lifetime, a thousand other maladies line up to take their
torches in the night—if you think april is the cruelest month, baby, you ain’t seen nothing of the
lite brite at the end of summer’s tunnel, nothing of the shotgun highway i’m fish-barreling down
right now just to stay alive, nothing of the bridges that carry our bodies across comatose moats,
where the bioluminescent bacteria floating surfaceward form words yet unknown to the
drowning down below

Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger

Dylan Krieger is a pile of false eyelashes growing algae in south Louisiana. She lives in a little cottage with a catfish and her demons and sunlights as a trade mag editor. Her first book, Giving Godhead (Delete Press, 2017), challenges the boundary between the sacred and the obscene by conflating biblical archetypes of holy acquiescence with sexually deviant forms of submission. Her other poetry projects include a collaborative satire of big-budget action movies, a collage of automatic captions from alien abduction documentaries, and an irreverent reimagining of philosophical thought experiments.
Dylan Krieger

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