Spring 2024


By Kait Quinn

            after Kevin Young

I am scalpel through skin.
I am needling through chamber

wall and atrium. Planting
a bomb set to go off on a bright

Tuesday afternoon
when you least expect it,

when it’s early spring and love
punctures you like blooming

pansies in pupil, chorus of goldfinch,
blackbird, and willow warbler.

I am hoping for splatter,
to pocket a patch of freckles

I can trace and retrace—a history
in mahogany constellations. I love you

the way light shines through
blinds in stripes. Sometimes

I forget there’s a luminous side
to this bituminous moon.

Sometimes I forget not to smile
with these teeth bared

in a wolf’s crooked grin.

Kait Quinn (she/her) was born with salt in her wounds. She flushes the sting of living by writing poetry. Her work has appeared in Reed Magazine, Last Leaves Magazine, Crosswinds Poetry, Chestnut Review, and others. By day, Kait is a legal assistant living in Minneapolis with her partner, their regal cat (Spart), and their very polite Aussie mix (Jesse). Find more at: kaitquinn.com

Spring 2024