QUINN WHITE


DOG KISSING

I want to do what I’m not good at.
A man wearing a business suit walks his dog.
The dog looks at the man and wishes
he had a suit. The man notices the dog’s
wish by the yellow prick of its ears and
says “Trust me, you don’t want this.”
He kisses the dog, who notices the man’s
wish by the length of the kiss which turns into
breath between the dog’s eyes as the man
imagines being a golden retriever.
When bone and hole harmonize, the dog
likes to lay beside his work and think of how
he got there. The man runs until he stops
thinking. I want to dig a ditch for Blueberry Lane.
I want to clean swordfish.
The dog loves the man’s toast and jam breath.
The man loves dog kissing.
“People can see us,” the dog whispers.



SECURITY HORSE

To keep from crying at the reading, I imagine a pink horse
gnawing the poet’s head as she shares her father’s failed tree houses:
his seven tries, his broken arm, his giving up, a tire swing
whose middle cradled her as she floated between trunks.
Summer, his love smelled like rubber.
My jaw tightens. My horse dances, shits glitter.



QUINN WHITE knows how to ride a horse. She grew up on a farm in Alabama where she was kicked, bitten, and thrown. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Sixth Finch, Bayou Magazine, and ROAR. Her chapbook, My Moustache, is due from Dancing Girl Press in spring 2013. In high school she asked a boy if he’d ever ridden bareback. Nobody understood that she meant on a horse. Bareback on a horse.

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