by Billy Malanga
Mother said,
“I can’t go without putting my face on.”
I said, “You already have your face on.”
She waved her fire-red lipstick high
in the air like a fixed bayonet, an old
injured queen with bloody lips.
She yelled, “I’ll take you all!”
And we believed her.
[Read more of Billy Malanga’s poems]
[Check out Billy’s back porch wisdom]
