He rolls off excess in the paint tray
then reaches toward the top of a wall
and covers a square
the size of a window—
the way he looked up
at his mother
as she rolled red across each lip,
always starting in the center.
He loved watching her
blot her lips with a tissue
that looked like faint wings
of a butterfly.
He wondered about taking one
and placing it between pages
of the Bible on the library table
by the window.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 1.
William Palmer is a retired professor of English at Alma College in central Michigan. His poetry has appeared in Cold Mountain Review, J Journal, Poetry East, and Salamander. He has published two chapbooks: A String of Blue Lights and Humble.See all items about William Palmer
