A twosome seen by three mirrors. An intense slowness. An intricate demystification. Doubly homed horrors that miss your missing. Digital bloodstains on teeth we cannot lose. I want to be uncurious in the middle of anything put to paint and paper by Dylan Krieger. I want to undress so midwestern-esque. By which I mean I want to invite. But can’t. But won’t. Krieger’s Predators Welcome is such a melancholy nuisance and such a built deconstruction that one might not know how to reattach or when to return. Details kill the devil. Stalk your family. Avenge closure in the open. Krieger’s verse is a ghosted intelligence that raises the already heightened ecstasy of privacy. Open the book, sure. But close it when done. Let it eat.
While I am biased as Dylan endorsed my first collection, but through the last decade I keep seeing Krieger dig into her visceral sensibilities--the blood and guts of relationships, poems of late and hate that may be as well be splattered on a napkin. Heady, moving, disturbing, hot, and sometimes beautiful, this collection hits me in the guts.