Every morning my mother painted on red lips:
Wine with Everything, Fire and Ice, Really Red lips.
I woke to kisses blotted all over my face,
little love songs at my temple, on my forehead, lips.
They seeped under my skin, but it still took time to learn
her songs when I sang through my cracked lips.
She could sing all night without dulling a point
in her Cupid's bow, soft notes from tinted lips.
My father grew tired of her voice. My brothers couldn't
match her pitch, couldn't follow with their misted lips.
So I carried her kisses, took her songs into my bones.
I will always be marked by her - now dead - lips.
I pluck a tube from her dressing table: Lehua Blossom.
I gather her sheet music, where I press my newly painted lips.
