Author Archives: hgquinn

Soft basket (edit 2)

A basket slung over my shoulder by leather straps, its belly shaped like a plum, wove of three kinds of grass — thick-striped — holds a stone, a shadow-self that comes and goes, places where I touch the ground, a … Continue reading

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Three years three months and counting (edit 1)

Here, leaves are falling through glassy air, rustling, puddling in corners. There, you used to swim in the morning. At night you’d go out to the swing, and sit and talk to me, your cigarette smoke climbing the ropes, while … Continue reading

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Soft basket (edit 1)

A woven-grass basket slung over my shoulder, shaped like a plum but larger, holds a stone, a shadow self that comes and goes, some places where I touch the ground, a river, a sea, a hot-metal sun, a frigid moon … Continue reading

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The cut (edit 1)

See here, on my palm: a still-bloodied cut where a falcon’s talon grazed my hand. He’s off to look for prey. Never jessed,  he sits by me, or sometimes on my arm, turning side-to-side. Alert to motion, he goes to feed in moon-lit worlds. … Continue reading

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Three babes (edit 1)

Three babes in snow-lightning, warmed in love, asleep in my arms, pine-honey sweet cheeks soft against my palms, their years, my hours.

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The cut (original)

See here, on my cloud-shadowed palm, a still-bloodied cut, where my falcon’s talon grazed my hand? He’s off to look for prey. Never jessed, he sits by me, or, sometimes, on my arm, turning side-to-side, eyes unbound, alert to motion dark in the pale desert. … Continue reading

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Simple (edit 4)

I’m blots of ink, a line or two, a supergirl you draw from inner sight. Now split the paper with your pen to find my comic heart.

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Simple (edit 3)

I’m simple in your hands — black ink on paper. Supergirl in skintight garb, your pen’s the blade that finds my comic heart.

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Simple (edit 2)

I’m simple in your hands — black ink on paper, supergirl in skintight garb. Your pen? A knife that finds my comic heart.

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Clouds, like Toledo (edit 3)

Riding south, across the river, a mile below the Bridge, see? A tower and forested hills, with leaves glowing in nooks in the bare, smoky trees, as if someone’s been shooting paintballs there, and the wind shearing the earth to … Continue reading

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