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).