First time you say I’m driving off the bridge
I hyperventilate and wonder how
I will survive, on flowered tile, the ridged
linoleum remains, caffeine-free brown,
of soda spills, wet grieving, falling down
while mom says, chasing, keys in hand, then I am too. And I’m alone, kitchen ground
forget-me-nots, bereavement bouquets tied
in ribbons, plastic death bequest, Raisin Bran
box clutched to chest. An orphan for an hour,
too short for bowls and spoons, I eat with hands,
like your return/apologies devoured.
The first time that you say it I am five.
The last time that you say it, I say drive.
Kristin Garth is a kneesock enthusiast and a Best of the Net nominated sonnet stalker. In addition to Glass, her sonnets have stalked magazines like Five:2: One, Anti-Heroin Chic, Former Cactus, Occulum, Luna Luna, Yes & many more. She has a chapbook Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), two forthcoming: Pensacola Girls (Bone & Ink Press, Sept 2018) and Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019). Her full length, Candy Cigarette, is forthcoming April 2019 (The Hedgehog Poetry Press).