Selected Poems

Caiti Quatmann

Nothing
is
Perfect

I saw something rustle by the trash cans,
then realized it was only the wind teasing a plastic bag.

Not every shadow hides a secret.

At the edge of the yard,
a raccoon slips between the fence slats,
its black mask glinting in the moonlight.

I tell my son they wash their food,
but he laughs,
says it’s not washing—
just feeling, just knowing.

Their hands have more nerve endings than ours,
he tells me, waving his fingers like they’re alive without him.
“They’re like tiny thieves,” he says,
“but better.”

We saw one once by the creek,
its paws slick with mud,
turning over stones.
It looked like it was praying.
I wanted to believe it was.

The kids at school play “the floor is lava” in the playground.
They leap from rock to bench to stump,
hands held out for balance.
When I watch, I think of the raccoons,
climbing down a tree headfirst,
ankles twisted just so.

When I was their age,
we climbed fences,
slipped through gaps too narrow for adults,
called it adventure.
There wasn’t anything to find, really,

but we pretended there was.
Pretended the yard next door was another world,
full of treasures left just for us.

Now, raccoons do the same to my garbage—
their treasures are crusts & cans,
a crumpled soda box shining like gold.

I saw one once dragging a bag of chips,
its tail brushing the concrete.
It paused to look back at me,
& in its black eyes,
there was nothing human.
Only hunger,
& something else I couldn’t name.

When my son sticks his hands into the stream,
turns over stones,
I wonder if he’s feeling for something I can’t see.
He says he’s looking for crayfish,
but I think he just likes the cold,
the water pressing into his palms.

The raccoon’s paws do the same,
touching the earth like a question.

My son holds up a smooth stone.
“It’s perfect,” he says.
I want to tell him nothing is perfect,
but I don’t.

I let him carry it home in his pocket.

Caiti Quatmann

All Day Long
I’ve Thought
of Scavengers

When the trash can is full
or overflows—I only hear
the can groaning. The path is short—

the way to the back alley.
& all day long I’ve thought
about tiny hands prying lids,

masked faces like cardinal jesters,
gleeful & unrepentant. We say
ridiculous things to each other

at dusk—our words like clattering cans,
our breath rising like night’s fog.
& all I can say is,

But consider the mess,
the alley blooming in chaos,
paw prints smeared in mud & grease,

the stench of yesterday’s ruin
run amok. You tell me,
They’re just trash pandas,

they were here before us,
& they’re just so fucking cute.
You tell me to let it go,
just live with the little creatures.
& I try to picture them
as novel thieves, shape shifters,

foxes in fairy tales. I walk
to the curb saying, Tomorrow
I’ll buy a bungee cord.

But I can’t stop
seeing them—hands
like skeleton keys, faces

like mirrors of my own cluttered heart,
my own scraps spilling out.
The moon hangs above like a warning,

a jagged coin pressed
into an open palm,
its light sharpens the edges

of the cans. & here they are
in the moonlight’s glare, brazen,
eyes glowing like the ends

of lit cigarettes. Claws tearing
through the tissue-thin skin
of my day. I want to walk

this alley, to shout something
to the darkness: I want
to walk through life without

all the creatures pulling at my scraps.
I want you to take less,
to need less, to leave me

just one clean, empty can.

Caiti Quatmann (she/they) is a disabled and queer writer residing in St. Louis. She is the author of three poetry collections and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. Her work is forthcoming or appearing in McSweeney’s, Rattle, Neologism Poetry Journal, North Dakota Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thread, and others. Find her on social media @CaitiTalks.