Sonnets by Kristin Garth
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A Geography Of Loneliness
A geography she is lost inside, in cave primeval cower, hide. Cruel chill against a wall that sweats. Dank darkness whispers grave regrets. These tunnel taunts, human pretense, evince an echoed loneliness. A chase towards what’s not a voice — to center sprint no compass, choice. Entombed in maze, desperate deep, a solitary stint stalagmite sleep. A cavernous malaise without a map, confusion, coma just another little nap. Daydreams assuage with heat of hearth relentless dark combusts. Escape to happiness is right outside. She sleeps with skeletons of those who tried. |
Parchment Doll
Brimstone basement, his paper doll, as pale as parchment, cut to crawl. A pencil brown begets a veil of hair. Cornflower, frail, survivor’s stare. Beneath in dark she drowns each night, a mattress bare, deadbolt locked tight below symphonic terrors he creates: the hounds that haunt her, screams then pleas contrite. All naked nightmares, a drought of dreams, her fate a flurry of erotic extremes. Squeak on stairs, summons from sleep. Upstairs what waits is horror on repeat — he twists and tweaks. Diorama designed to keep her in, his doll for parchment torture without end. |
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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.
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