by Connie Wanek
Lipstick
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She leaned over the sink,
her weight on her toes,
and applied lipstick
in quick certain strokes,
the way a man signs
his hundredth autograph
of the morning.
She tested a convictionless smile
as the lipstick retracted
like a red eel.
All day she left her mark
on everything she kissed,
even the air,
like intoxicating news
whispered from ear to ear:
He left it all to me.
Connie Wanek lives in Duluth, Minnesota, and is the author of two books of poems, Bonfire (1997) and Hartley Field (2002).
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