At five, lipstick was fun
Red, smearing my mouth, as I looked at myself in Mum’s mirror
Though I shouldn’t have jammed it back in its tube.
At fifteen, lipstick marked my no-longer childish face
So pale, nearly white, contrasted with the black round my eyes
All eyes and no mouth looked cool, or so I thought.
At twenty five, I wore no lipstick at all.
Long hair, bare feet, one with the folk,
At least, with those folk who sang in folk clubs.
At thirty five, I was altogether too feminist
To have any truck with make-up at all.
Though I dyed my very short hair pink.
At forty five, I applied for senior jobs
Which were more normally done by men.
I was advised, correctly, to wear lipstick. I bought some.
At fifty five, I discovered that I had become invisible;
Just another aging woman. But lipstick
And black on my eyebrows, makes me reappear.
If -
I so choose.
Postscript:
Not my decision I know
But what would I want the undertakers to do?
Of all my lipsticks what should they choose?
Not blood-red, I think, and surely not blue.
Ice-pink, perhaps, I wouldn’t refuse
On my lips when I go.