2 poems by Kristin Garth

    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.


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    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