out to breakfast

and doesn’t it make sense, how
the mouth would leave the impression—
cratered and sloped, pursed
rubies regal.

aged hands delicate on the curve,
slow to touch, to pour, but
deep in the knuckle-lines a knowing:
sip quick.

no more perfect
a display, this lipstick bloodshed red
on a battlefield of snow, it seems to say
muss a ceramic rim! stain!
disrupt! do not be afraid!

retired product of my generation, strike
me—who favors foundation face,
my fingertips brushing powder
stuck to peach-fuzzed cheeks,
the hard plastic snap package
on the bathroom counter at home
calls it porcelain, this
flushed color i am.

invisible strings among women
i can sometimes catch a glimpse,
shimmering and hovered just above
what is visible, they slip through
once in a while, crack the tangible
and sit on something solid,
my skin and the brim
of these stark white tea cups,
shades of cream-swirled coffee
and earl grey.

i’m quiet in my awe. mine,
the only naked one, where theirs seem to say
look, see! look at all of what i am!
look, here, this imprint of me!

outlined, where their thoughts flow from
clings like life to the edges.

i’ve never wanted red lips more.