my mother’s daughter

“A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.”

this is a quotation

that clings to my breast

like a damp wool sweater

unraveling itself  / somehow

perfectly timed

with the footsteps

i have memorized

to the locations of





and my heart’s luggage

packing itself / somehow

lingerie lands haphazardly

in my

cardiac attaché

lined in

vintage paisley paper

if only

 the design

didn’t draw the eye

to the dents

i guess

my instinct to survive

this ardent apocalypse


i have to

keep moving

and leave

long before

I am left

so please

write to me

on the

imaginary stationary

on the

pretty little postcards

in your mind

a. duncan, 2016




Posted by

"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

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