Kait Quinn (she/her) was born with salt in her wounds. She flushes the sting of living by writing poetry. She is the author of four poetry collections, and her work appears in Reed Magazine, Watershed Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Slippery Elm, and elsewhere. She received first place in the 2022 John Calvin Rezmerski Memorial Grand Prize. Kait is an Editorial Associate at Yellow Arrow Publishing and a poetry reader for Black Fox Literary Magazine. She enjoys repetition, coffee shops, tattoos, and vegan breakfast. Kait lives in Minneapolis with her partner, their regal cat, and their very polite Aussie mix.
& still my heart clenched / in her tight little fist. / & still / your kaleidoscope irises / imprinted / into my chewed bubblegum core. / & still rose petal blind. & still stitched / to that yellow mattress. & / still. / & still / a coal mine throat / stolen canary. / & still the moon. /
Go to Post >> I was a single grain of salt stuck to the tip of sea’s tongue. I stung at all eyes, spasmed every throat, tried my best to strip all skin of death but only recalled their wounds. In my next,
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