Samantha Duncan is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Playing One on TV (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2017) and The Birth Creatures (Agape
Editions, 2016), and her fiction has appeared in Meridian, The Pinch, The Conium Review, and Flapperhouse. She previously served as Executive
Editor for ELJ Editions and has read for several issues of Gigantic Sequins. She blogs occasionally at planesflyinglowoverhead.blogspot.com and
lives in Houston.
My lipstick scares the story time crowd.
Babies flee under the parachute. To be honest,
I want to leave my blackened mouth print
on their dimpled legs. Bulbous eyes light the room
just from staring at me, and I’m reminded
I’ve been hungry for days. I go home and stare
at all the gaps, Lysol and duct tape the noise
when necessary, reapply throughout the day.
More than a flutter is the loneliness of a job
half the planet is also doing this very second,
like the cold intimacy of afternoon coffee.
Four out of five infants agree
pureed squash tastes better when strained
through my black lace leggings, so I reapply
and flip the switch, conveyor belt, on.