Invertebrates

One morning the driveway’s covered with worms. 

You close the garage door once you discern 

the dark wriggling covered concrete affirms 

a clew of sentient creepers turns, yearns 

to invade a cottage two humans do 

spurn.  Mate arrives home soon as it is your 

turn to construct a necessity to 

adjourn awhile from a shared domicile. War

you both learn to avoid whenever you can. 

Churn in the belly as you close your door.

You are as spineless as these, you understand. 

Invertebrate invasion, you can’t ignore

anymore you live a life that makes you squirm,

asphyxiating like a buried worm. 



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

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

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