Doomed Attempt

I put on lipstick, not quite crimson, true
To my own skin tones, add a little blush
(My mother would have called it rouge). “No rush,
Take all the time you need,” I’m hearing you
Explaining how it works, like a whole crew
Of architects. Plucked eyebrows, once too lush,
Give way to pencil. Look in the mirror: hush!
Say nothing. “Nothing?” This is nothing new.

This isn’t near as beautiful a face
As yours: powder won’t help, nor will eyeliner,
Nor gowns from that unrivalled French designer
With his visions in taffeta, sans lace.
This doomed attempt just puts me in my place.
I miss you, and it isn’t something minor.

Some Testy Words

Regards to all my temporary fans,
Discovering resistance to the State,
Pretending that I’m everything they hate
And nothing meaningful. They make new plans,
Demand permission to publish the banns
In every district. Unwilling to wait,
They cry the news for twenty-nine days straight,
Announcing it from loudspeakers on vans.

At one time, when my audience was small,
I joked about how soon I’d be The Bomb,
And nobody laughed much, except my Mom,
Who said she read the writing on the wall:
There were some testy words about the Fall
And she said, “Chill. Relax. Try more aplomb.”

Loved You ’Til Death

See, I loved you ’til death. And now you’re dead,
So I don’t love you any more, do I?
If you’re not faithful to me, I won’t cry,
Wasting my tears on wickedness. You said,
“You don’t want love; you want to be spoon-fed
Some sort of gross devotion. Months go by
And you stare at me gloomily, your eye
Twitching as you make and unmake the bed.”

My life continues, even though yours ended —
Met both the Devil and the deep blue sea —
Claiming your chains had somehow made you free.
What nonsense! What was it you intended?
I’ve been distracted, but not undefended:
My disappointment in you rescues me.