Every day is the same.
Every day sunlight
and the cat's hoarse pleas
the crack beneath the bedroom
door, pool citrine on wooden
floor. Look at this little carnivore, his irises
every shade of rainforest,
papier-mâchéd papyrus, pupils
eager and dilated, belly shaved
from the ultrasound,
the mass in his stomach ticking.
the espresso beans riff
with the grinder, bass rumble
of extraction, the steamer's hushed copper
percussion. Look at this little life:
these blankets crocheted with fleece
and love, these little jars of
hyaluronic and glycolic acids,
nightly rituals bottled in amber.
Every day I light one
of my twelve candles.
Every day I choose decaf.
Every day the dog is just as happy
to see me as he was the day before, hour
before, just three minutes before.
Every day the maple
is right where I left it.
Come mid-October, she will trade
her emeralds for golden
tourmaline, still stand
the same sage and hyssop
guardian I left her as last night.
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, Watershed Review, Chestnut Review, and elsewhere. She received first place in the League of MN Poets’ 2022 John Calvin Rezmerski Memorial Grand Prize. She enjoys repetition, coffee shops, and vegan breakfast foods. Kait lives in Minneapolis with her partner, their regal cat, and their very polite Aussie mix. Find her at kaitquinn.com.