By Mridvi Khetan
lips don’t live beneath our noses
but above our heads
behind colored reality
beside graying passion
lips crack—
our binary
chap—
our speak
swell—
our reality
into banished balloons
and deny the fact of tongue
tip toeing into
spaces in
between—
reason and rhyme
where the nose doesn’t chime
Speak!
I don’t wear lipstick anymore because
make up revealed the mistake
Ma’s red committed
her repulsive berry lips
left wretched wings on scarves
a marriage murdered
before starch and soda could cover up
the sweat beads on mother’s lips
papa thinks passion is a woman’s sin
Ma’s cranberry lips are repugnant
papa said because they stunk of whores whose
reds went beyond cigarettes and burnt dresses
swept over their licked hands that know
no home under innocent red sunsets
sin is the fate of the lips
gran mary said
simple ribs would’ve never tempted Adam
to break life’s cycle and steer to Satan
seeds and storms, both a sordid lie
Quiet!
Ma’s lips are still colored
she puts lipstick on me too
says “this is you”
says “use it wisely”
says “it’s your prison”
says “it’s your escape”
I see
her lips
now