It’s not a walk-in closet, bi-fold doors,
white shuttered rectangle for clothes, I make
much more: flashlight, library stash, shag floor,
a hole I lay in darkness — carpet snake.
I’m not allowed to lock a bedroom door.
They own this house. A body has to hide.
Long nightgowns or it’s “you look like a whore.”
I take off all my clothes when I’m inside.
Sometimes I hear him come inside my room.
Nobody here would ever think to knock.
I hear his breathing close. My own is doom.
I am the animal he likes to stalk.
I wait to hear the creaking of the stair
to slip inside nightgown, blue bed, despair.
Kristin Garth is a kneesock enthusiast and a Best of the Net nominated sonnet stalker. Her poetry has stalked magazines like Glass, Yes, Five:2: One, Anti-Heroin Chic, Former Cactus, Occulum, Luna Luna, & many more. She has a chapbook Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), two forthcoming: Pensacola Girls (Bone & Ink Press, Sept 2018) and Shakespeare for Sociopaths (The Hedgehog Poetry Press Jan 2019). Her full length, Candy Cigarette, is forthcoming April 2019 (The Hedgehog Poetry Press). She’s currently working on a poetic collection entitled Puritan U. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie), her weekly poetry column (https://www.rhythmnbone.com/
