Fall '23
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KAIT QUINN
after Lukas Bacho, Zaina Alsous, Seamus Heaney
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One night, a quarter moon cut
me in pieces at the palms:
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purple crescents pulled salted
desire from every direction, tears brined
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from the swelling. I never knew
breathing air could kill like drowning
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or that what once was calming can flip
like a coin into seasick tempest tossing.
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To think you once draped softly
ashore my bones like ocean foam crawling
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lazily to coast—
Here is the patch of desert
I pitched a tent on to escape the storm.
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Here are the mountains that bled you scarlet
from my nose. I shouldn't mistake fool's
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gold for silver linings—just because your backyard creek bed
carries something shiny
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doesn't make you rich. One evening, the front porch light
is a full moon calling moths
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like memories to her orbit. There is a fault line
that divides us, a whole continent to slice
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you from me. The horizon says the land
is always giving. The sun says the harvest is not for us.
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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, Chestnut Review, 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. Find her at kaitquinn.com.