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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