Caked on. Blotted. Bleeding into the cracks.

Heartbreak Red, Nymphette, Orgasm.

When I was twenty-one,

my favorite shade was Matte Claret.

I thought it made me look older.

I’d layer it on in the bar bathroom,

while my best friend waited at the door.

Hold on, hold on,

I would say until they were perfect.

Andrew, Sean, Bill, the other Andrew.

My lucky lipstick.

Lots of kissing. Lots of fucking.

       Lipstick on the cheek.

       Lipstick on a napkin.

       Lipstick on a cock.

When I was twenty-eight,

the girl at the make-up counter said,

Discontinued, with her unforgiving gloss.

I replace it with Amande Sucree,

put it on in my cubicle at work,

examine my lips in a handheld mirror.

Count down the minutes to happy hour.

       Lipstick on a wineglass.

       Lipstick on a collar.

       Lipstick on my boss.

My new lucky shade.

His office. The bathroom.

The suite at the Ramada Inn.

In my thirties, Viva La Glam

made me look younger.

I’d put it on in the car. Check it out

in the rear view mirror of the mini-van.

Preschool pick-ups. The grocery store.

       Lipstick on a water bottle

       Lipstick on a Kleenex.

       Lipstick on a Luna bar.

Lipstick on my son’s cheek,

rubbed off with a thumb.

Quickies with my husband, who says,

You look better without it.