The tragedy of us — inside we’re twelve.
My candy cigarette chainsmoke, pinstripe bespoke
your suit, convenience store, costumed noir. Delve
into your pocket, frigid Slurpee poke,
of fingertips, a teen detective caught,
before I have a clue, cherry-handed —
receipt/poetic benediction sought,
pickpocket your mystery. Remanded
always empty handed, to prison bars,
wide stripes. Two adolescent archetypes:
teen femme fatale, a private dick with scars
consigns me criminal, stereotype:
you lock inside with juvenile regrets,
a beggar you bring candy cigarettes.
A question that you ponder in Walmart
4 am, after being fucked in all
the ways you know of in some woods, a part
of town you've never been or can't recall.
Even though you begged and pleaded with this man
your wooer with a keyboard "Not that. Please."
You felt behind your neck that squeeze, his hand
that brought you to the dirt and to your knees.
"I'll leave you in these woods alone unless
you let me." So you did. You screamed, but no
one listened. Now, you look at milk, obsessed
with freshest dates. Today will require so
much coffee. Question's not how will you sleep,
but how to wake to woods you'll just repeat.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked magazine pages in Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, Luna Luna, Rag Queen Periodical, Anti-Heroin Chic, TERSE. Journal among others. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from Maverick Duck Press, and she has another, Shakespeare For Sociopaths, forthcoming from The Hedgehog Poetry Press January 2019. Follow her sonnets, socks and secrets on Twitter: @lolaandjolie
Image by zombieite, found on Flickr: https://flic.kr/p/7Rg5Sd