My mom’s idea: reduce the tits. His looks
are merely consequence. The problem’s me,
a girl, sixteen. Surgeon consulted, booked
to intervene. “You must say you agree.
They overpower anyway. Attract
attention, evil kind. Your clothes can’t hide
what ails men’s minds.” An attack
I ponder teary-eyed. These breasts, my pride,
atop, preside, a freckled flesh of flaws
not yet my own. A dream to flee and be
intact, full grown that turns to stitches, gauze,
a chest he won’t desire. She won’t hear pleas.
He’ll ask for thanks, my dad, who makes her quit.
The looker is the one who saves his tits.
Men Are Giants When You Are Five
All men are giants when you’re five. Childhood
is something to survive. Drunk carousel
he lifts you up to ride. You learn the good
in small is you can hide. Princess he tells
a story under sheets — apologies
for violence he repeats. All mixed up
inside with fairytales, mythology,
incestuous details. A pink teacup
a monster cracks. Primate who breaks you rough
then glues you back — carelessly. Damage shows.
The source of trouble no one knows — this gruff
behemoth in puritanical clothes.
Because of him you are both dead, alive
inside. Men are giants when you are five.
Kristin Garth is poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked the pages of Occulum, Ghost City Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Murmur Journal, Fourth & Sycamore, Rise Up Review, Drunk Monkeys and many other publications. Her poetry dollhouse chapbook Pink Plastic House will be published by Maverick Duck Press in early 2018. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie.