The clank of faux
pearl snaps on sleeve cuffs
against table top formica,
a message seeps
through wine patches
in the shirt plaid—
not long now, this leg
is coming
to an end. Time
to leave lipstick on another
mug and pull a black velvet coat
over shoulders before breezes
become extinct
for eight more, gusts
take over the glorious
hurl forward.
She is certain her mouth,
painted cerise,
will not wear away
too soon. She may
become all lips
without limbs, without
a neck, without a torso.
She would still dip
this color, with certainty,
to her brush.
Long before
day one
there was
this painted mouth:
Lipstick in hand,
she drew her mouth
perfectly without looking.
Later, watching herself
be an artist,
her lips canvas,
she drew a cinnabar moth,
not a kiss.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 