First stalked then sickness, that September stare
in sequoias silent, shadowed snare, hides
a slender shepherd, stolen sheep, scarred,
shorn sacrificed inside your sleep. Besides
a body put to bed, six tentacles
invade the head. One slips beneath flannel
sheets, cradle hold; between the ventricles,
five more unfold. Two enter, through ear canals,
sleek sneak, a cerebellum corralled. Bore,
two more, through nostrils deep. In snores
the last appendage seeps—a swallowed sword,
a midnight accolade of dark oaths sworn
by silent suggestion; slumbering child
awakens proxy tentacles defiled.
A prophet’s garment’s filthy sheets, he skids
and steals on salted streets. Woman follows
with babydoll replacement for some kids
she can’t recall. Sidewalk shepherd bellows
sermons, imaginary flock—smell, syntax
avoided, mocked. Bible blabber that no
one hears includes a plan he crafts, their pact,
for years: a younger wife he’ll take; she’ll show
his prophecies perverted long ago.
A teenage girl because it’s God’s own plan,
a revelation he will not let go.
Begins, father helping a homeless man.
He hears her, harps of angels, raking leaves.
His knife delivers all that he believes.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. In addition to Moonchild Magazine, her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Glass, Anti-Heroin Chic, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal and many more. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press, and she has two forthcoming: Pensacola Girls (Bone & Ink Press, Sept 2018) and Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019). Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.