Cheeks filled with powder
like fingerprints lost in wax,
dimples smoothed, wrinkles contracted
as shallow lakes in summer—
the audience see themselves in her,
and thus, she enters them.
Thickened lengthened lacquered
lashes beat largo, butterfly
fanned wings to an older song.
Parisian decoration, adornment,
fluttering in the wink, she opens
a picture-window over clear still water.
In bright lights, glossed lips reflect,
project, appear to hover in front of her face,
an invitation to the world to pay attention,
fuchsia pink, fez-red,
add and sum like layers of paint,
she speaks through lifted leg,
phrase in thrusted wrist,
like mist over a morning river,
lifts a flat canvas to a new dimension.
All the world a stage.
Clown one time, phantom the next.
She has an argument with the world,
tears colouring cheeks like creeks
over flattened land, gloss thinned
by the tongue wetting lips
heated by a war with motion,
dance done, curtain drawn,
needing another’s comfort,
mask removed, phantom vanished,
enamel worn, looking for her mother’s face.
Jeff Burt lives in California, and contributed to Sheila-Na-Gig, Williwaw Journal, Rat's Ass Review, and many others. More work can be found at www.jeff-burt.com