by Kristin Garth


A wedding which you waited for a year,
her innocence reward for yours so new.
A decade since your demon disappeared.
Depravity in dreams you still review.

The night a dress of white reveals a thigh
with burned-in bud you water with your tears.
“A teenage lark,” so casual her lie.
A honey cup you suckled at for years.

Zenobia, their harlots marked with flame,
a house that haunts your head each night you sleep.
You drank their naked nectar marked with shame.
This face once made you smile now makes you weep.

Your fingers trace a story petals tell:
your angel bears the bell-shaped mark of hell.





“Engaged and useful as the bee,” his eyes
so holy light on me.  From the pulpit,
I surmise desire in a saint’s disguise.
‘Tis flames in pupils that bespeaks his guilt.

Fifteen, the reverend does pray with me
behind closed doors on bended knees.
A plan that I shall not be wed but be
afflicted, take to bed, “Spectral disease.”

A chilled bed chamber must I wait for time
eternal, scream and shake.  My speech of beasts
who claw inside provokes pastor’s nighttime
travels to my bedside, impious pleas.

They send for preacher who taught me to pray,
his poppet maiden whom he showed the way.


Kristin Garth | @lolaandjolie |

Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her poetry has been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Infernal Ink, Fourth & Sycamore, Deracine, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Digging Through the Fat and other publications. She’s currently constructing a poetry dollhouse chapbook entitled Pink Plastic House: Three Stories of Sonnets.

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