Sinner Red Lipstick
Under the water
He’s the boy
in sinner red lipstick, desperately seeking Jesus, or Poseidon, or whoever else might hear him under the water.
He’s asking all the wrong questions in bible school, a year before he sipped his first Big Girl beer, a day before a D.A.R.E officer would tell him he would go to jail for Just. One. Sip.
But he swallowed, and nothing happened.
He is knocking on your door now, but you aren’t home today to see his sinner red lipstick.
He didn’t know about curfews or boundaries; just doors that open wide and slam shut suddenly.
His sinner red lipstick was a piece of what he thought was a sliver of lead in his eye, but he was mistaken.
His sinner red lipstick was the guilt in every story; it was your advice.
His sinner red lipstick was the perfume masking the smell of blood, quiet and demure, but unbending, when asked for a donation to support the War on Drugs.
His sinner red lipstick was all hips, all baby-maker, all sadistic trappings of your imagination.
His sinner red lipstick is the the end of another story you forgot.
His sinner red lipstick was thicker and harder than tears; waterproof; chasing balls with the real boys.
His sinner red lipstick is buried in a drawer somewhere in the memory of an aging man
who is okay now.
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