is a Picasso. She paints
it with the mascara wand. Rising
at dawn to roll the tube of crimson
wax to color her lips. She dips in a brush –

not for dust. But to sweep the powered
roses on her flesh. The shadow she sees
are mint green or azure. Depends on
the day if she’ll wear less or add

more. A pencil isn't for
writing the script, She underlines
her eyes with it.