Compartmentalized

I’ve known a lot of boys

who look something like

Architectural Digest vacation homes

long devised lines

wide windows in a woods

for feral things to peek inside,

backslide before someone

notices a nuisance &

acquires an antiquated gun.

Some cottage designed

blueprinted then refined

for generations hence,

15-foot cathedral ceilings

exposed brick erected evidence

composed of whim &

unnecessary wealth

a very public appearance

of decorum, mental health

I don’t really fit inside.

I look, to them, like hotel rooms

where they hide.

LaGuardia

He is your pinstriped stalker at the gate,

mini-skirted traveler who hesitates. Hides

to spy how suburban pale thighs vibrate.

Favorite flavor is you, terrified.

He licks it from your lips. Big city quips

rebuild your confidence. He leads you to

a waiting car. Though you flew here for whips,

already scarred, this city makes you new

again, as small as you have ever been.

Across his lap, backseat driven by his

girlfriend, he speaks of a book you’re both in:

your verse, whips; hers, fisting experience.

Over shoulder, she wiggles a small hand.

You’re not in Wonderland, you understand.

Note: LaGuardia was originally published in Kirstin Garth's column Womannotated at Burning House Press. Read more about the poem here.

__________

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker.  Her sonnets have stalked journals Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of twelve books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press) and the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press) and The Meadow (Apep Publications, 2020). Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website http://kristingarth.com