Handkerchief by Kristin Garth

Kristin Garth, Poetry, Punk Noir Magazine


When he will offer you his handkerchief,

it exists five states from where you cry 

inside a drawer of pine or make believe

a fairytale that you still grieve.  He buys 

the postage to a place he will not go. 

He is a gentleman you know.  Invites 

your choice of gingham or stripes.  How thorough

the gentle swipes of cotton so you might 

smell love a phone can neither show nor tell.

Unfold it like a parchment spell.  Hold it 

against your lips a spell until scent impels

(he as well, Internet omnipresent,

diction, decorum of your dirty south)

you take what you have of him in your mouth