Dirt on ivory carpet in the pattern
of toes, footprints en route from the French doors,
haphazardly closed, as if by a slattern
not a recluse; fenestrated view was your
exclusive use — until last night,
as the smudges profess. Somebody here
has something to confess, expressed in each blight
of earth which leads right to your bed, appears
to suggest egress instead of sleep
as you believed in a house you can’t leave,
prison of panic you have perceived. Deep
in a consciousness you cannot conceive
you wandered back to a vault you desert
without a memory except for the dirt.
Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal). 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 kristingarth.com