Makeup

My mother does not trust women without it. What are they not hiding? Renders the dead living and the living more alive. Everything I say sets the clouds off blubbering like they knew the pretty dead. True, no mascara, no evidence. Blue sky, blank face. Blank face, a faithful liar, false bottom. Sorrow, a rabbit harbored in the head. The skin, a silly one-act, concurs. At the carnival, each child's cheek becomes a rainbow. God, grant me a brighter myself. Each breath, a game called Live Forever. I am small. Don't ask me to reconcile one shadow with another. I admit— paint the dead pink, it does not make them sunrise. Paint the living blue, it does not make them sky, or sea, a berry, clapboard house, or dead. God, leave us our costumes, don't blow in our noses, strip us to the underside of skin. Even the earth claims color once a year, dressed in red leaves as the trees play Grieving.