Your public school pupils don’t wear plaid.
I do ritualistically because
being sad trolling punk rock bars, for bad
influences like you, in wet fuzzy,
socks, platform penny loafer shoes sometimes
ends with bruised thighs, thick fingers inside tight.
A fuckboy introduced us tonight, kind
of, indirectly when he said, “this ain’t right;
he taught at my high school.” Your eyes on my
pleats, braids in my hair, you could pull me off
by them anywhere. Pry amaretto sour
from my fingers, ply me with ice cream. Scoff
when you can’t cum inside of a devoured
teenage dream you purchased with whipped cream, hot fudge.
Rains every second the one night we touch.
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