Kait Quinn (she/her) enjoys repetition, coffee shops, tattoos, and vegan breakfast foods. Her work has appeared in Reed Magazine, Olney Magazine, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Minneapolis with her partner, their regal cat, and their very polite Aussie mix. Find her at kaitquinn.com.
I Talk About Hands
after Laura Jean Henebry after Seneca Basoalto
when I talk about hands, I mean scooped out shells / robbed
of tongue & pearl / I mean somewhere down the coastline
is a naked hermit crab without a home / his exposed abdomen
curled / I mean my heart is in your palm / please
give it a home
when I talk about hands, I want to stuff yours in my mouth / one
knuckle at a time / I mean I want to lick the ivory from your fingers,
unstick the steel from beneath your nails / use only my teeth / I mean
I want to swallow every chord / I mean I want to carry every cell
that transmutes keys & strings into symphonies, spins me
into the ceiling fan’s whirl / I mean I want to be the womb / your muse, you
mine / immortalize me
& when I talk about hands, I mean titian mums in bloom / moist
dirt / I mean plum trees & peach trees & rows of strawberries / I mean
look at what I built! / I mean dough kneaded & hot ovens, ice
cubes wrapped in blue dish towels for the burn / I mean plant the aloe /
brew the tea / unmake the bed / be prepared for the worst / please
take care of me
& when I talk about hands, I mean I pass velvet & can’t help
reaching / I mean forcing the dead to speak / I mean you are a wooden
board carved with letters & I am the planchette / talk to me / drag decay
through old dirt / knock over the tombstone / break out
of the cemetery / I mean send the fourth step creaking / slam the cabinet
doors / move my favorite cheap ivory rose ring / breathe
winter into my rotting fruit / haunt me