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A Poem by Kristin Garth

His Kaleidoscope Coven 

Whittled its body from a blackthorn trunk.

Hollowed the insides to imbibe the sun.

Each turn of its tube make you dizzy, drunk

until you wonder what it is you have done. 

Accept a toy from a stranger in 

the woods whose whisper leaves a shivery itch.

His eyes trace the curve of your velvet ribbon.

Only word he ever utters is witch.

Still you open a palm and then an eye 

to a distortion he intends you to see.

Heedless ladybugs, grasshoppers beside  

and butterflies above witness you ceasing to be. 

Wee coven evanesces into his snare — 

a woodsman holds in one hand, always prepared.


Kristin Garth is a womanchildish Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist, the author of THE MEADOW (a novel from Alien Buddha Press, October 2022) and 26 more books of poetry and prose. She is the dollhouse architect of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal.

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