My mother was one of those people who never descend
at the stairs in the morning without either rouge
or lipstick on.
The idea was that you always had to be ready for the day.
And then she was ready.
She passed away a few years ago, a couple of years ago.
But I found a picture of her in 1946,
right before she got married the next year.
And she is with her girlfriends, out on the town.
This is right after World War II.
And this poem was for her.
"Girls on the Town, 1946."
You love a red lip.
The dimples are extra currency, though you take care
to keep powder from caking those charmed valleys.
Mascara-- check.
Blush?
Oh, yes.
And a hat is never wrong except evenings in the clubs--
there a deeper ruby and smoldering eye
will do the trick, with tiny embellishments--
a ribbon, or jewel, perhaps a flower--
if one is feeling especially flirty or sad.
Until Rosie fired up her rivets, flaunting
was a male prerogative.
Now, you and your girls have lacquered up
and pinned on your tail feathers,
fit to sally forth and trample each plopped heart quivering
at the tips of your patent-leather Mary Janes.
This is the only power you hold on to,
ripped from the dreams none of you believed
are worth the telling.
Instead of mumbling, why not decorate?
Even in dim light how you glister,
sloe-eyed, your smile in flames.