and then suddenly, one day, evolution clicks shut. mouth latched onto a plastic buoy. iridescent scales sloughing off. if you live long enough, there’s no telling in what era your senile shell of a self will wake up. pack-ratting peanuts under the great depression. ironing silk napkins in a vinyl 1960s kitchen. in the nursing home you hide your valuables like you’re still locked in the lager, the ghosts of your brothers picking poison berries from the wartime rubble. how many ways are there to say i’m sorry you no longer remember what came after? the commie moon fodder, college-bound daughters, cracked camcorders, christmas dinners in shag carpet condos--you still know me, but slowly, more shrouded in past ash, the peeled-paint layers of birch trees that ail without sound. your last gasp, in contrast, has that blind rasp behind it, irises clouded by fallen lilies, face full of what’s next
Dylan Krieger is a divining rod of ungodly proportions in south Louisiana. She lives in the back of a little brick house with a feline reincarnation of Catherine the Great and sunlights as a trade mag editor. Her debut poetry collection, Giving Godhead (Delete Press, 2017), was dubbed "the best collection of poetry to appear in English in 2017" by the New York Times Book Review. She is also the author of dreamland trash (Saint Julian Press, forthcoming), and no ledge left to love (Ping Pong Free Press, forthcoming). Find her at www.dylankrieger.com.