BOOKS - LAST
TRAIN TO THE DYING PLANET - POEMS
I had my lipstick read at a cocktail party,
had to apply then kiss a glossy index card
as if it was the love of my life.
I kissed the slick paper open-mouthed;
the imprint of my lips like a song.
My lipstick color is “Heroine,”
purple with an undercurrent of blush,
a hue that shows no remorse.
Even the reader is fooled:
thinks I’m an impulsive romantic, willing
to fly to Paris on a whim -- you’ll try anything
he told me -- because your lips are parted,
yet, the corners are joined together:
A circle of friends, holding hands, white sky
in the middle, a hole for me to disappear into.
Just tell me, I ask, tell me about the crease
on my upper lip. Read it. Explain why
it’s always been there; a trail leading nowhere.