Poetry by Kristin Garth











The two you miss.  My raveled ribbon yanked,

dismissed. A chase to tunnels, huddled pleas

while we hug knees.  A gingham dress that flanks 

a goosebumped tease of skinny arm I squeeze.  


We hear your feet.  They pound playground,

a pack that grows discreet but close.  We hear 

the menace and the squeak.  So sure we’re found, 

our arms go round, so near we disappear. 


I feel her breath.  A rhythm on my neck 

it beats as quick as your retreat. A brush 

of lips a jaunty journey to my cheek. A peck 

so soft, unsure it’s real until I peek and blush. 


A concrete five-foot tunnel where we hide,

escape your kiss, we make our bliss inside.  







Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker.  Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rising Phoenix Review, Fourth & Sycamore, Dear Damsels, Neologism Poetry Journal and many other publications.  Her poetry dollhouse chapbook Pink Plastic House:  Three Stories of Sonnets will be published by Maverick Duck Press in 2018.  Follow her on Twitter:  @lolaandjolie.

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