Poison Pink

My lipstick is the headline telling you to look
at halter tops masquerading as current events,

but I really mean donít look. Be through a keyhole,
swaddled tightly between a male gaze and un-gaze.

I really mean shut the fuck up, a white ink tattoo,
something other than Granís throw quilt.

Must I find a tree frog to sew into the mouth
of every man who tells me to smile?

Like captivity isnít the pucker
from a 1998 Glamour Shot.

Think carefully about how to slice the body,
so its parts can fairly compete as clickbait. Look

at the curves on those bags of domestic waste,
tossed in the garbage truck as the trash man tells me

Iím beautiful. Will I feel detained or dictatorial
in their mouths? Must I risk infection to find out?


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 serves as Executive Editor for ELJ Editions and reads for Gigantic Sequins, and she lives in Houston.