They press a thimbleful to your lips during
the rarest celestial eclipse. They say
you must swallow. Venus obscures. Whirring
of shadows, sentience blurs. That first day
you seize upon symbols inscribed on the floor
amidst a circle of elders who have
done so before. Conjures cyclops, centaurs
seraphim, fiends upon your behalf
as you float between home, heaven, hell
psychopharmacological paths.
Wound you will weather to one day be well,
writhing for witnesses, weakened with wrath
but immune to the poison enemies pour —
tonight they give you a little more.

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 seventeen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Crow Carriage (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Golden Ticket from Roaring Junior Press. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website

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