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