Small Talk With Mother by Kristin Garth

Small Talk With Mother

 

On rare occasions when we speak, all talk

and topics must be tweaked to something in-

controvertible or small, a walk

I took, a shopping mall. Reminded when

I did express, just yesterday, mercy

for powerless, noblesse oblige, dog who died,

not mine, my friend’s, who cried an hour to me.

Mom, snide: “Pets die. Ten, twelve years at best.” My

mistake expecting smallest sympathy

from one without history of empathy

for humans, animals, a small body

once carried against a heart, you decreed

sixteen be scapeled apart — protect my dad.

You never let small things make you sad.

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of fourteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck). Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website http://kristingarth.com