Dirt

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

Categories: Poetry

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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