Quinn White

Quinn White is a poetry MFA candidate at Virginia Tech. Her work has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, The Stradler, A Bad Penny Review, Dirtflask, and Eunoia Review.

Open

red light between my toes
a fuse, a vein nicked.
let what flows return so
again I may burn wet
with words.
my mantra is
open
and the week of rain and catfish
does a crimson flourish along my limbs when I ask
open
body like a carnival switchboard
on lure the highway’s detritus drawn
to my hot Ferris twirls of sugar and combust
ably burned, the post-partum smoke
of exit, a wobbling dismount my fingers
drawing beads across red thread.
hippopotamus and crotch words
for elephant and eggplant
saucer-faced the click of cat nails down the hallway while I ask
open
let the leeches let and linger as I suck
and am suckled
fingertooth and Tibetan drum lollipop serious as
the sword-split rainbow march of five colors, those
conundrums, those altocumulus cleavers.
I rest my beads on my stomach.
I watch the rain.
I listen to the hiss of cars.
The barking dominos.
I prop my legs on the bed’s edge and elbow the desk,
sentient as a sestina, I weave
croon and sleeve records,
my name, address, and numbers
open
flicker dim to thrush with rash,
raw ash thick: the steak I drop
dripping pink and housed brown
on your paper plate.

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