after Mary Oliver
We share a quiet moment, our lips
bridging the center console, my mouth
forgetting how to receive
your tongue, like I've kissed enough
bathroom sinks to bloodlet
my lips numb. I pay a woman
to rip out my hair at the follicles,
for no one's hands but my own.
My fingers are eyes for the unseen.
I choose pain. I tip her twenty percent
for hurting me extra
good, smoothing me exceptionally
plump and pink. My partner encourages
the dog to choose the plush
Winnifred Sanderson in Petco's
post-Halloween discount bin
just to make me smile.
The dog carries Winnie all the way
to the car like a good boy.
I buckle my seat belt, open my mouth
like a good girl. My tongue remembers
it is a tongue.
I fill the holes chewed
into my cheeks with gold.
Kait Quinn
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 Anti-Heroin Chic, Exposition Review, Reed Magazine, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. She received first place in the 2022 John Calvin Rezmerski Memorial Grand Prize. Kait is anEditorial Associate at Yellow Arrow Publishing and a poetry reader for Black Fox Literary Magazine. She enjoys cats,repetition, coffee shops, tattoos, and vegan breakfast. Kait lives in Minneapolis with her partner and their very polite Aussie mix. Find her at kaitquinn.com.
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