Sonnets by Kristin Garth
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.
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.
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.