My mother never appeared in public

    without lipstick. If we were going out，

    I'd have to wait by the door until

    she painted her lips and turned

    from the hallway mirror，

    put on her gloves and picked up her purse，

    opening the purse to see

    if she'd remembered tissues.

    After lunch in a restaurant

    she might ask，

    "Do I need lipstick？"

    If I said yes，

    she would discretely turn

    and refresh her faded lips.

    Opening the black and gold canister，

    she'd peer in a round compact

    as if she were looking into another world.

    Then she'd touch her lips to a tissue.

    Whenever I went searching

    in her coat pocket or purse

    for coins or candy

    I'd find， crumpled， those small white tissues

    covered with bloodred kisses.

    I'd slip them into my pocket，

    along with the stones and feathers

    I thought， back then， I'd keep.