All in by Shannon Quinn

by Shannon Quinn

I trade you small pot of light
for key that sticks in door.

Our worst nights, coin toss
burn house or bed down.

Wool-drunk moths in sock drawer
judge our quiet violence and dime-bag sentiment

but then we have an early evening
you mostly sober, me mostly clean

thinking of every possible animal afterlife.

Prescription sleeping pills smuggle
us into sleep, where we are strangers.

Cross the street to avoid each other.
Drowning girl can’t climb
on another body, call it shore.


Shannon Quinn is the author of two collection of poetry, Questions for Wolf (Thistledown Press) and Nightlight for Children of Insomniacs (Mansfield Press). Quinn lives in Toronto, Canada. See more at