# Lipstick
**by Liza Wolff-Francis**

red for the whore
you called me, pink
for the party girl,
any color at all
to call a man,
color determines
which man comes
(or if one comes at all,
perhaps). Lipstick,
once not
for feminist lips,
now shapes words
of liberation of
equality, of rising
up, of justice.

Lipstick, a mask,
a disguise, enhance-
ment, fantasy,
for you, for me.

Lipstick, or
lack of it,
may define, out-
line, ignore what
or who you
call me, high-
light who
I call myself.

Lipstick leaves
lip mark graffiti
on glass, on
cheeks, on
teacups out
of the dishwasher,
the only way
some of us
are remembered
at all.

Is it on my teeth?