By Kristin Garth
A pile of shoes out by the street, old maid
high heels, nine year old feet. Walk your runway
of weeds, untended lawn. You strut through jade.
Those shoes stay on. “You’re a model.” “Yay,”
you bounce. You smile such feelings that you don’t
pronounce. Pause a minute everyday
by your white house, these things we say. Alone
at night out in the street — assume neglect
not violence, like I have known, outgrown.
They suffocate and beat you, who should protect.
A little friend of mine who was alive
whispers what a privilege to survive.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Anti-Heroin Chic, Quail Bell Magazine, Murmur Journal, Rag Queen Periodical, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine and many other publications. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie and her website: kristingarth.wordpress.com.