Marilyn Monroe’s Lips
Marilyn Monroe’s lips, and little orphan,
Annie’s hair. The crunchy apple I eat on a fall afternoon, or the robin that sings when the sun comes out to play. The roses that smell sweet on my Grandmother’s kitchen table. The blood that trickles down a cut finger. The color of love.
The construction signs that make us take an unwanted detour, leading us to someplace new. My fizzy soda pop I buy in a glass bottle at the local gas station. The skin of an over tanned housewife who covers up her problems by focusing on her appearance. LeBron James’ best friend, his basketball. The fire that ran wild that summer night. The color of the sun.
The trench raincoat worn on a crummy, rainy day with knee-high wellies and hat to match. A new chick that hatches just in time for Easter Sunday, and the lemon in your ice water. The medal that represents 1st place, followed by silver then bronze. The traffic light that means slow down, yet everyone speeds up. The sound of a giggle, and the neutral color people buy when they don’t know whether it will be a boy or a girl. The color of a laugh.
The rich grass that our feet run through. The money in the business man’s pocket, the color that represents greed and growth. Santa’s Christmas tree at the North Pole, and a turtle who lives longer than most humans. The limes in my mother’s Pina Colada, and the leaves on the trees that decorate my yard. The color of the earth.
The sky that stretches infinitely. My papa’s faded denim jeans. The cold lake I dive into when the day is far too hot, and my baby brother’s eyes that will forever look innocent and pure. The tears that fall off faces when hearts are broken, and moons that people say they age by. The river I kayaked on with my friends last summer, and the feeling when your down in the dumps. The color of Cinderella’s dress and glass slippers, the color of dream clouds.
A baby pig born on a farm. The convertible Barbie drives in Malibu or the bubble-gum that sticks onto the bottom of my sneakers. That cotton-candy that’s spun at the local county fair. My rubber eraser that undoes all of my mistakes — scratch that — some of my mistakes. And the Pepto-Bismal found on the left hand side of the medicine cabinet. The color that baby girls are wrapped in, the color they are born into.
The snow that sprinkles when autumn fades to winter, or the hair on my Grandpa’s head or at least what’s left of it. My two front teeth I got for Christmas, after I gave my old ones to the Tooth Fairy. The dress I wore on my first Holy Communion, and the dress I’ll wear if I’m lucky enough to get married. The baby pearls hidden in oysters on the ocean floor, and the gloves the Queen of England wears. The bleach above my washing machine, and the clouds — the stairs, to heaven.
The coal that bad kid’s receive for Christmas and the velvet dress I wear to funerals. Mama’s burnt toast on a busy Sunday morning. My bedroom without a nightlight, and the coffee without the sugars or creams. The clothes that burglars love to wear, and the top hat owned by Abe Lincoln. The color of my new puppy, and Frosty the Snowman’s eyes. The color of the universe that stretches father than our moon. The dark endings.
