Her lips part like a

naive rose readying to open

as if to beautify

the world by saying

something, something.

 

She reaches for a glimmering

stick, in shades of tangerine

night, aims

then pulls back

then aims once more.

The cut edge

lands with precision

along the upper left bloom

of her smile’s outline.

 

She presses

more tangerine layers

along the

right arch of her flower

bright colors falling into cracks

where youth once made a home

where age now welcomes

crumbs and whatever else comes.

 

Her mouth still open wide

she extends her arm

away from her half-finished life.

 

No, finish, her memory tells her.

 

And she resumes

swiping one more swath

of tangerine across

the petal of her lower lip

 

then twists the lipstick

back inside its home.

 

Later, she will kiss goodbye

and leave an imprint of her

infinite breath

behind.

 

2/7/2016