in the rockface, a failsafe
we’re doing donuts in a paved-over prairie the day you start shaking like a helicopter haunted by vodka. several motion-sick cycles of vice later, and the hairpin delirium’s nowhere close to subsiding. between a rock and a powder, you cower powerless, perpetually off-balance, convinced we’re still circling our own asses across the blacktop pasture when i threw it in park an hour back now, but hear me when i say there is always a failsafe, mechanical trickster, father god in the motherboard. just when you think the abort button’s your only option, some lever you’ve never noticed clicks into position, eyelids adjust to new dimness, and you start plucking the wings of all the chickens you used to live with. hope is the thing that once had feathers but since re-primitivized into a pterodactyl, screeching past a molten land mass, do your damnedest, little planet. from the ashtray to the ice age, the secret is the radiation can’t be parted from the snow
Dylan Krieger is an automatic meaning generator in south Louisiana, where she lives with a feline reincarnation of Catherine the Great and sunlights as a trade mag editor. She is a graduate of the University of Notre Dame and Louisiana State University, where she won the Robert Penn Warren Award and co-directed the annual Delta Mouth Literary Festival two years in a row. 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, 2018) and No Ledge Left to Love (Ping Pong Free Press, 2018), which won the Henry Miller Memorial Library book contest in 2017.