My mother wore loose powder with her lipstick
No other make-up, not even mascara, and even then
The occasion had to be of the special variety
Involving salt-rimmed glasses of Margarita
And shrimp cocktail, if times were good.
The box is round, of course, by Maybelline,
And the puff fits into it just so and when
It comes up for air again it chokes, and spews
A cosmetic cloud, like the nuclear fall-out we
Feared under wooden school desks, thanks to Cuba.
I keep the leopard-printed box atop my dresser now
Dust around it, touching jewels, perfumes, and potions,
Then gasp at my reflection in vanity’s mirror,
As I lift the lid and breathe once more what was her life.
The ashes scatter and she is gone again. Forever and again.
Posted by Katy
on 10/08/12 at 02:44 PM
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