The mother, painting lips
In a mirror of fractured images,
Whispers to the boy to watch—
Dabs, with magic, the tissue,
Makes a reproduction
Of a smile in red.
The boy, with delicate wonder,
Traces the faded lips on paper,
Ghostly filigree,
Wishes, once again,
To feel their ancestors
Brush against his willing cheek,
Resigns himself to a gentle caress
Before balling it up
In a tight little fist,
Closed, like the lips
Freshly painted,
Looking on with a quiver,
Almost a smile, from somewhere
Within her spidery glass
As it continues to catch
The shivering glimpses,
Eerie reflections
Of a life lost to madness.
And painted, she spreads
Her bilious wings,
Craves her reproduction
Of a smile in red.

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