A Lipstick Called &Quot;Matador&Quot;. Poem by Miki Byrne

On the floor lay a lipstick called ‘Matador'.
I opened it. Swivelled it out of its case
into a small phallus. Red as blood.
Bright as its namesake's cape. I pictured a face.
Saw the smear of colour as it slicked over
the soft cushion of lower lip. Delicately marked
the vee of cupids bow. I wondered how many times
it had glossed a pout. Or sketched a smile,
to enhance white teeth, or maybe not so white.
I see a woman grimacing. Snarling into the mirror
in case a stray smudge has smeared her teeth.
She rubs the mark away with a matching red-tipped finger.
Then drops the slim black tube into her bag.
Amongst the receipts for Tesco and boots, her car keys
and phone, in a cute little leopard-skin case.
I think of what she might have said. Words swallowed
and regurgitated to other people.
Carried from work vocabulary to street talk.
Morphing into endearments as her mood changes.
I saw her scarlet smile stride into a boardroom.
Her heels tapped out the Morse code of confidence.
And I wondered if that lipstick helped her to progress?
To happily air kiss colleagues and plant a sloppy imprint
Upon her loved ones cheeks. Or was it just the bright colour
of bravado. To hide the shaking of her hands
And the nervous sweat that streaked her back?