Little Legs By Kristin Garth

Little Legs

A life I’ve lived upon your knee, array
of legs since I was three. You turned it bad
when I was five. Forever Father’s Day
in me alive. Two little legs still sad
that climb on top of strangest laps and spread
sublime. A little love inside a grown-
up head is promised ponies in hundreds
of beds. All knights, so like you, first I’ve known
with blades that seek the youngest bones. My tears
collected, fetishized. Woman, in me,
you have euthanized. I wear my fears
in braids, your tartan target tragedy.
The first and worst leads little love to bed.
My little legs still follow where they’re led.

By Kristin Garth


Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have been featured in Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fourth & Sycamore, Digging Through the Fat, Murmur Journal, Neologism Poetry and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House: Three Stories of Sonnets will be published by Maverick Duck Press in 2018.

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