Her cherry Mary Janes drip on the floor,

toes pointed toward hell, a translucent 

whore with a choker of incisors, molars 

you will ignore for she’s costumed as student,

a corpse made of a ward, in cobweb stockings 

you think an innocent knit.  The black widows 

that climb them are no accident.  They cling

to calves of comely cadavers.  They know 

the villains will come.  They wait patient at

ankles, tickling some — why she giggles,

also the sight of your smiling face that 

is full of teeth she may soon wiggle,

displace.  Add a tooth necklace is never done.

The spiders provide with stockings they spun. 

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 23 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press) and Atheist Barbie (Maverick Duck 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 kristingarth.com