Sonnets by Kristin Garth
A towhead in a town of green, she’s sweet
that summer, lithe, fifteen. School supplies,
red leaves of fall, a neighbor boy she treats
the way she does a soccer ball. He tries
to watch the normal ways: across the street,
yard games she plays, in every class,
ice cream group dates. Until he climbs a tree
beside her upstairs window, waits. Through glass
he studies suntanned skin, swears his brother
will not touch again – the one who drives them,
too much to say. Their hot words another
despicable display. Golf club condemns
her with relentless swings. Too young to drive,
he kills the thing that breaks his heart alive.
The Gray Cat
You’re mine because I hate to sleep alone.
Unplanned parenthood, I leave the club with
a pinball princess. Houses each our own
and boys, but none tonight. Her door shuts swift
encloses us with cats, too many, but
just you that comes to me. Blue eyed
gray furred, baby bottle fed. It's not what
I want, to shelter. No mommy inside
a girl who's daddy denied yet cannot
say no to beast or man. The sickest man
six months later, lit a fire-- won't be caught
and threw you in a closet then just ran.
A feral girl it takes a fire to tame;
a kitty I forever see in flames.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. In addition to Moonchild Magazine, her sonnets have stalked the pages of Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Drunk Monkeys, The Visitant, Neologism Poetry Journal, Occulum and many other publications. Her sonnet dollhouse chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie and Medium: Medium.com/@lolaandjolie.