Her Lipstick
Mother is always refreshing her lipstick.
The colors she chooses are dark enough
To leave an impression of lips on your cheek.
Sometimes it would be half of her lips
Like the last sliver of moon, or both
Crackled like aluminum foil.
Those marks are always hard to wipe off;
Off the fur of the dog —
My husband's 5 o'clock shadow —
Mother's pregnant with stories;
One born after the other as the hour passes.
Her cup of tea darkens with rings around the rim.
She's always refreshing her lipstick, the contour
Of her rose petal lips, or those stories
Would have been drab with its absence.
When she leaves, each kiss is indelible,
A water proof symbol, of a mother's flagrant love,
And I wonder — when will she start to kiss the cats?