Lipstick
A Photo Study
LIPSTICK
She isn’t who she used to be;
no longer at the center of the dance floor.
Eyes no longer wander to stare at her and smile.
Her red robe flows over her thin frame.
Her back is thin and bent.
Nails, once polished, now chipped.
Her breasts lie long and flat on her belly;
her legs thin as rails.
She stands unsteadily at the mirror.
Her walker is her constant companion now.
The fluorescent bulb reflects coldly on her face.
She leans in to stare at her reflection
She studies herself.
Her head tilts to the right
and then to the left.
She smiles.
Coquettish.
Memories
of being the belle at the ball.
She pictures a red rose in her wavy hair.
She can see her husband,
long gone now,
wink at her from the shadows.
She smiles.
With a trembling hand
she picks up a tube of lipstick
the color of tangos,
the hue of a marimba band.
She applies it to her lips.
They slowly stain red.
She presses her lips together firmly and smiles.
She opens her compact of rouge.
paints it on her cheeks;
brushing, caressing them with care.
She stares at the mirror.
She pouts.
Her eyebrows raised provocatively.
Her clouded eyes wake up.
A small nod.
She turns her head right and left
and for a moment the fluorescent bulb is a candelabra
and the bathroom floor is a ballroom.
Her robe becomes a
flowing scarlet gown.
She hears music.
The man standing in the dark beckons to her to dance.
And in the mirror she is young again;
fresh as a flower in the spring.
With a trembling blue veined hand
and pouting red lips
she blows a kiss at the mirror.
She heads to the dance floor,
young forevermore.
