red
It’s just
a red lip
stick
said my young feminist friend
when I held it out
to her
after she asked me
how to stay brave
day after day
It’s the symbol
that you need to paint your face
to be acceptable, she said.
It’s my paint, I said.
A red lipstick
is the sign of war
the shade of the poppy
that we kiss death with.
the sign on my face
that says
stop right here
the tattoo of whoredom
that I refuse to ineffectually hide.
If I had a mark of cain
I would paint that red as well.
This is the paint
I use to strike fear
into the heart of my enemies
This is the hue
my mother was too timid to wear
for years and years.
I am not brave
every minute of every day
I get tired and frightened
we all do
There is no end to
hey-baby-nice-ass-stuck-up-drink-up
measure-up-lighten-up-pushup-suck-it-up
pin-up
hang us on a wall and
goddess forbid
we speak
I will wear red like the blood between my legs
that makes them spit in disgust
thinking we won’t notice the fear. I remind them
that I will not die THIS month.
I could copwalk
with a madmax rattle the rest
of my days
and still be underarmed.
I paint my mouth red
and you will stop and listen
the penalties for not complying
start with a ticket.
I will paint my mouth red
until you see the
no-fly zone from 20,000 feet.
I will paint my mouth red
to memorialize my broken daughters
and battered sisters in a
color more realistic than a black dress
and pantyhose and high heels.
I will paint my barbaric yawp red today, I said
to graffiti the wall
of be modest, lean in, and talk softly.
I will scribble red on the pavement
of everyone who feels the need to lock the door on my voice.
It is my fire engine, racing to the rescue, it is my speedboat
to handle with final grace
those who have already drowned.
It is my chains to the fence of your disbelief.
It is my plague flag, this well is already poisoned
If there is nothing else this day I can do,
I have a red lipstick.
