Bare Lips

I spot you at a funeral,

     your silver hair still thick and full.

It’s bad enough my thin brown hair \

     pulled back

     hangs straight.

But worse is when I lick my lips

     and realize they’re bare.

“Wear lipstick,” I recall you said.

“For God’s sake, please do something.”

A plain black dress accentuates

     my bloodless

     long

     unpainted face.

I steel myself to smile.

“Hello,” your creamy charm

     spreads smooth.

To be polite, I pull my lips like rubberbands

     across my teeth and rattle hands.

With full red lips and hair to match,

     she hangs on you.  Afraid perhaps?

     Of what a daughter means to you?

She eyes me and apprises me,

     You’re no surprise.

In silence she dismisses me—

     a bare-lipped girl no threat to her.

Although I want to throttle you

     and make you stay and tell me why

          you don’t love me

                and never did,

     I say, “Good-bye.”

Without a word, you turn to leave

I lick my lips and realize

     I had a taste, but it is gone.

     Like melted butter

                   you are gone.    

                             Marla Doherty