Heather Quinn

one poem

divining the bones

she is spangled
dances alone in the kitchen
places her heart on the tips of wings

rails along with gimme shelter
how hard it is to collect the atoms of her body
in the ways of nine to five

immigrant deaths
mass shootings
she forces a clock

into the cavity of her heart
to remember the ticking of time
in high heels she wakes

to the buzz of bees in her rib cage
desperate to make honey
she rolls words like pinwheel, lips, dust,

chalice over her tongue
tastes their earth
their salt like lover’s skin

she wonders why the knife
of migraines cuts so often
like lightning trying to teach

the tree electricity
she is blind to the language of dreams
fingers over faces of ancestors

arranges them in shapes
that quicken her pulse
a signal to point the way

Heather Quinn is a poet living in San Francisco who loves the act of layering memory, image, the political & spiritual into her work. She often thinks of writing as collage-making. Recent publishing credits include 42 Miles Press, Burning House Press, Ghost City Review, Headline Poetry & Press, Inkwell Journal, Kissing Dynamite, Prometheus Dreaming, and Raw Art Review. She can be found on heatherquinnpoet.com and on Instagram at @hquinnpoet.