I mean I used to vomit
onto paper, finger smear the bile
& crimson until something
resembling light fallen
through stained glass onto white
marble appeared like Virgin Mary
on a slice of baguette. Now I’m lucky
to spill my arteries once every
Tuesday. I don’t stop ’til I’ve lost
enough blood, made up
for my sin in cardinal penance.

I’ve been writing a haiku
a day all January. If I’m feeling extra
wordy, I’ll drag the syllables out
into a tanka on bird-of-paradise
mating rituals—the forest-stripped
stage, the swollen emerald chest,
the maiden, the dance. I try to convince
myself it still counts (—this
is my resurrection). Like when the most
you can do is brush
yourself like a crumb out of bed,
take a breath, call it living.

~

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 five poetry collections, and her work appears in Anti-Heroin Chic, Exposition Review, Full House Literary, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. She received first place in the 2022 John Calvin Rezmerski Memorial Grand Prize and Sad Girl Diaries’ 2023 Fall Poetry Contest. Kait is an Editorial Associate at Yellow Arrow Publishing. 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.