2 Poems

A Psalm for the Dying

Now I lay thee down to sleep. Press dank palm
against limp lips made meek by open blade
poised at a throat while uttering a psalm
I wrote beneath your husband while you prayed —
memorized with lemonade I squeezed
and carried to this very bed, a tray
with macaroons, his tulips red as these
rivulets dripping down your neck, each
side to be circumspect. Careful you shall
soon rest in peace without a sound to breach
the master’s suite.  Best for last, after all,
the evilest require some time to take.
I wear your blood before him when he wakes.



Your father never had a plan just dug
a hole on repossessed land.  Harvests what
malaise would bring in lieu of water, drugged
that spring.   A body, witnesses abut
a crime scene he could not shut with sounds
he cannot drown, in unfinished ponds where
evil is found then followed through without bounds
or care.  They dug for him a hole somewhere
on potter’s field.  Sent you away to two
you did dispatch today.  In clawfoot tub,
their blood still drips from your belly; you
chew fingertips to jagged, tender nubs
that an hour ago signaled a carriage crow —
lit candelabrum in a bay window.


Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of fifteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House, Shut Your Eyes, Succubi  (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press) and The Meadow (APEP Publications).  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

artwork by Amy Alexander