Joel Holland The Meadow by Kristin Garth, APEP Publications, $14 paperback, 2020 Reviewed by Ambrose Hall A collection of poetry that begins in childhood, with chilling glimpses into small town abuse, and follows the young girl into adulthood, to awkward early sexual encounters, through her first serious BDSM relationship, to its heartbroken ending. The Meadow is an intense, sometimes painful ride of mixed emotions that build and build into a fevered, dark sensuality, reple

by Kristin Garth Artem Labunsky There’s not a mark upon your exposed skin. Bruised buttocks start where hemlines end. Last night was spanking before audience, crimson. Today, the purpled consequence, in light of morning, lobby stroll, pale dress, ribbons one engraven adornment of control —  a collar like the others wear, given in exchange for your underwear; then told to find a strong young man, bell boy, fifty dollars in your hand for candy, dandy. These thighs slide slick,

by Kristin Garth Eric Nopanen after and for Ric Ocasek He’s what you needed, second song: woman- child who only half belongs upon this backlit phallic stage. A state license to strip reflecting legal age kept on a manager’s desk confirms your right to show these breasts (most mature elements you possess). Squeezed in extra chairs tonight mainstage — canines wolf white, blacklight, men scent on cotton candy wafting from your chest —  to be the one your ribbons graze, leaned in

by Kristin Garth enrico bet for the teenage girl who found herself in the Story of O Some day men will call you another name. Some day some pay to put you on a plane. Some stay in hotel suites where you are shamed. Your name’s a party password some obtain —  riddle some hypothesize, explain the scarlet skin of one who entertains —  etymology of dominant brains. Truth? Taxonomist, teenage boy who trains you, some day, to employ Scarlet , screen name of raven-haired southern gi

by Kristin Garth Artem Labunsky Wing Removal across a Dining Room Table Inside his dining room, he will remove the plastic wings, shirt they’re pinned to—everything a naughty girl would wear to fly. Reprove rebellion in succubus eyes. Between bare legs, Italian wool knees forced wide, cheek against mahogany, arms pulled high by his girlfriend at the other end—weak wet, without clothes, regret, it begins. Why you wore it on your chest, the pin, male flight attendant’s innocent