& 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. / & still the sun. / & still an unfulfilled promise wrapped / in a band of white around my fourth finger. / & still the trees. / & still the birds. / & still my blood rushes toward you no matter how / many poems I claim myself lunar. / & still space. / & still rings around Saturn. / & still my pen in your orbit—hush, felt tip, hush! / & still wings plucked. / & still moth to porch light. / & still hackneyed. / & still Rio Grande. / & still bluebonnet currents / cicada drawl / cooling back of the neck with cold glass / condensation. / & still your blood orange mouth / beckoning. / & still. / the caged sparrow split open / ribs / cracked by acid pull.
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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.
Some arresting images here, Kait. I love – “& still my pen in your orbit” and “moth to porchlight”. I’m a big fan of repetition as a device, too. One can play with it in so many ways … Good to read you here .. again! 😉
Thank you so much, Melissa! I appreciate it <3