First foot fetishist
I meet at the strip club adores a horde
of stilettoed feet — mine, two more paid if I’d
take a seat at his table, champagne poured,
to unbuckle shoes, nothing undignified,
untoward — removing bras, plaid print skirts.
Rest your sock feet (he knows they hurt) upon
a seat discretely close to him — not pervert
but gentleman who would never come on
to you, ask to touch. Proffers rote questions
about school, movies and such though his eyes are
on arches, toes when you respond. Obsession
makes him an automaton, a strip bar
regular. Every dancer knows the routine—
It’s still demeaning if not quite obscene.
*
Transmutability
I drive across a bridge sometimes to write
where I was born — an insular beach town
my parents scorn because, somehow, in spite
of the tank they fabricated to drown
me in somebody else’s vacation place,
I too am a tourist who travels
an hour, unicorn notebook, pencil case,
towards this gulf to share some tranquil
coffee shop space with teenagers, doing time
like me, with strangers hoping to find
transmutability maritime.
I blow through here for a breeze that reminds
me of the resilience of my mermaid brain —
a gulf could only nurture not contain.
*
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
