within her

found by few and conquered by none

the redolent library in her eyes 

wild horses, white noises and whale bone corsets

paper lanterns, piano wire and delft porcelain

within her, without her

there is a respite, there is a sonnet

composed of grotesque romance, ebony ink and wanting

where a raven is a writing desk

where a haven is a spinal cord

pressed like velum into paraffin

where he lingers like a post script confession

where he splits the edges of her sacred pages

with moistened fingers

unaddressed invitations in humid kisses

constellation charts, coffee condensation and chess pieces

a welcome kind of writer’s block

within her, without her

momentarily delicate, his quill quivers

with his darling, his dossier

a. duncan, 2018



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"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."

7 thoughts on “within her

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