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.
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