By Patty Arbour
The funeral director leaves me
with the lilies, petals spread,
spewing sympathy &
with my mother –
peach lipstick spread
on her mouth like a creamsicle.
We are not women who wear peach,
even perfectly applied.
She had said she didn’t care
about the funeral – dad could decide,
it would be fine. She didn’t know
he would choose peach.
I was not there for the choosing.
I chose distance
the most flattering shade for me.
I consider the mortician, consider my mother
on her satin pillow
consider touching her.
Her peers from JC Penney whisper –
how natural. Natural my ass,
natural is bobbi brown’s brownie lipstick.
The Italian ladies, shoulder high
leave powder, lipstick lamentations
on my dress, soiled
for tomorrow’s funeral.
Soap spreads the stains
encircles them in brown.
I have a run in my nylons
my only pair,
my unraveling in full view.
I pretend not to need you.
Patty Arbour was born in Detroit and at age thirty moved to Florence with her husband and baby. She owned and operated The Artisan Gallery on Northampton’s Main Street for 36 years until the pandemic forced its closing. She fell in love with poetry, submerging herself: writing, reading, studying, living it…