By Kristin Garth
A clink of crystal on a private jet,
dry eyes that dance but lips stay wet. Refills
on bubbles, orange label bounce. A debt
to words she can’t pronounce. His bills
get paid by interviews. She sells pictures
to cable news: pigtail payday, a two
year old, destroyed, discarded before you
are sold. A nanny named she never knew,
more litigation means more work to do.
Tonight terrific, out of jail, a flight
to freedom with cocktails. Her eyes as blue
as those two you derail with drink each night.
Though he cannot afford to have regret,
a toddler’s corpse, not easy to forget.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola, Florida. Her poetry is featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Infernal Ink, Mookychick, Digging Through the Fat and No Other Tribute, an anthology. She’s currently working on a poetry book entitled Pink Plastic House.