by Kristin Garth
You soften in the sunken world, callouses
caressed by displaced schools of nibble fish
until rough skin is raw. Ecesis
is the only law if schoolgirls wish
to survive a tempest personified
as maternal, murderous, who would drown
each, found, in a collective filicide.
To thrive underwater or underground,
offer bits of flesh to what’s around, mouths
which swallow, without teeth. Life seems safer
underneath. Deciduous, the deeper south,
you’ll hardly miss such small amounts. Nature
recompenses, too — glass house, water view
of Naiads deciding what becomes of you.
[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 23 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press) and Atheist Barbie (Maverick Duck Press). 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]