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 &
a very public appearance
of decorum, mental health
I don’t really fit inside.
I look, to them, like hotel rooms
where they hide.
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