The Woods Have Teeth

 

Dangled beneath branch bowed, a bottom lip,

perceived to be half of a smile, a child

believes it for a while.  After arms rip

the residents its foliage hides, wild

 

squalls, some shawled invalid saw (infants

humans would claim, rename), remain untamed,

same feral pets, a mansion mere hindrance

to the unforgettable outside. Maims

 

a mother, murders more, still you will skip

across its cemetery floor, leaves effete

left, pyramids, bereft — abandoned grip

on greenery which sheltered death discreet.

 

Devoured flesh beneath branches, grief,

it has a mouth, these woods; you feel its teeth. 

 

Poison Peculiar to Boyish Bees

 

Meandering through longleaf pines, darkness

proffers you its lemon rinds.  Sour juices sluice

between five exposed toes, yellow carcass

you tread upon without your clothes.  Through spruce

to lemon tree where you will wait beneath

its branches, pink glistening bait, for what

resembles an adolescent boy.  Wreathed,

positioned body, soon deployed, abuts

a trunk, attentive to every noise.

Pink poisoned perspiration, poise, you lose

as voices without footsteps near.  Convoy

of grim swimming ghosts, caudal finned, confuse

you with villainous possibilities

immune to poisons meant for boyish bees.

 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker.  Her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five: 2: One, Yes, Glass, Luna Luna, Occulum, Drunk Monkeys, and other places.  She is the author of eleven books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Puritan U (Rhythm & Bones Press) and Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press) and the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press, 2020) and Dewy Decimals (Arkay Artists, 2020).  Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website (kristingarth.com).