"Quinn" by Abby Holtzman

Quinn is dead.
But when Quinn was alive his name was not Quinn.
It was a quick twist of the hand
thumb out
a q-shaped gesture.
Quinn was a dog was deaf as a doorknob.

Quinn was also as round as a doorknob.
As inviting
as necessary,
to me.

Quinn understood
how the world was made of rectangles
and that the shapes of humans and dogs are more like
big splotches of extremities
than right angles
and
flat planes.

Quinn, they tried to fence us in
with safety collars and doors and beds shaped for refrigerators.
Quinn got out.
I still do not quite fit into quadrilaterals.

Quinn, who designed this stuff? A cardboard box?
I’m sure Quinn knows, now.
I’ll have to ask him, soon, with my hands.

Quinn is buried in a wooden rectangle.
I will be, too.
Quinn is a q-shaped gesture.
I will soon be but a me-shaped remark.