A private college run by a Prophet
you never trusted, but your daddy thought
would save you, man and school. “Won’t let you quit.
You will make friends.” So you rush Kappa, not
authorized on campus like Coke and sex.
No Greeks, they say, but eight surround you at
this mixer, one a blonde Adonis next
to photos, Apostles once in his frat.
He speaks the names and doesn’t blink. Sister
whispers, “He’s going on your card.” A pink
rectangle with the names of strangers, list
of “five you’ll please until they sign,” she winks.
Dad drove you days away, ignored your pleas;
you knew this place would bring you to your knees.
Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have appeared in Infernal Ink, Anti-Heroin Chic, Mystic Blue Review, Quail Bell, Occulum, Fourth & Sycamore, Digging Through the Fat and many more publications. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie .