Poetry by Kristin Garth

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Pensacola/Houston

What makes me wet kills three small states away.
The same atmospheric release of waste
that escalates against my roof and plays
a rhythm damp inside that I can taste
can turn a living room into a tomb.
Desire and death in drizzled droplets from
the same gray sky.  Trickle tickle that blooms
my lust entombs and traps in Texas. Drums
against my sundress in a shower, peeled
off, naked nipples amidst some trees
while people pray for boats of men who yield 
their path to food and light.  The unheard pleas 
of those in chairs on counters that still drown.
While I am wet with pleasure, won't be denied,
some float inside their houses that have died. 





The Weed

You spot me from a distance, tender's eyes. 
A thistly, thirsty thing, petals perfect just 
so sadly small, stem too thin to rely 
on for support.  You save because you must.

To nurture, collect petaled pretties your 
purview.  My gardener transplants, at best,
a project to his box amidst "les fleurs"
you watch then whisper to in French and bless.

Experiment you hope to elevate 
and educate.  Exotic window mates,
the bitter beauties I bask between, berate
the common sprout your eyes appreciate. 

A weed once watered, hoped to make a bloom,
you pluck, without guilt, when you need the room.

Bio: Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, Florida.  In addition to Anti-Heroin Chic, her sonnets and other writing have been featured in Quail Bell Magazine, Occulum, Mookychick, Infernal Ink, Digging Through the Fat, SCAB, Society for Classical Poets, Moonchild Magazine and more. She’s currently working on a poetry chapbook project entitled Pink Plastic House:  Three Stories of Sonnets.  

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