The Sound of Sadness
The sound of sadness is The Graduate
soundtrack relentlessly repeated via
your inadequate bedroom door. I know its
allegories, their creep still deep in me,
as once was he. What virgins do, these songs
made into hymns you’re memorizing, not
a thing to do with me at all. Belonged
to me a neon minute then you caught
my prophet with your sticky fingers, pluck
a rosemary vision, fresh from my hand,
your one/best friend. First sisters he will fuck
but not his last — two raindrops, his marshland.
He’s never let inside our home again,
but sounds of sadness mark where he has been.
The Sexual Hypocrite Has No Clothes
Unsteady, bathroom stall when you hear the thing,
too scarlet, shamed to leave. You’re wasted, half
a bar of xanax, hear a thin as string
co-“entertainer” say your name then laugh.
She’s telling all the girls: you are a whore
because you fucked a guy you didn’t know,
at someone’s party after taking more
ecstasy than ever before — some blow
as well (while she had sucked at least three dicks —
that you’re aware of, finger-fucked some girl
to boot. Then she pulled you to the side, quick
said “Nothing leaves this room.”) A silent hurl
before mainstage, repaint those slut-shamed lips
that keep secrets of topless hypocrites.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, a sonnet stalker and she has a chapbook: Pink Plastic House available from Maverick Duck Press (maverickduckpress.com). Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Drunk Monkeys, Fourth & Sycamore, Rag Queen Periodical and many other publications. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.