Birch Trees

She sometimes slept with a man who made beds from 

trunks of birch trees.  Hugged knees beneath branches,

by balsam sap candles while he hummed,

told stories, whiskey breath on her neck, his 

weight disturbing the sheets then laid circumspect. 

Mattress so high she had to ascend with 

a ladder like she was a child.  Within 

this bed forest she’s never defiled. Myth 

she believed categorically to 

be true — a bed is where they lay you down 

to do violence to you — he will disprove 

to his hand-me-down doll collected from town 

wasted, crimson socks, juice box then bed.

Sometimes seeking wolves she found birch trees instead. 



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 21 books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. 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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