Brownstone Lady with Lipstick

I stand in my room tonight- 386 miles

from the vestibule of your brownstone building,

where you raised me. The smoked mahogany house

radiated heat throughout Brooklyn.

I stare in the mirror now and then, gazing at my own pupils

hoping to see you in me. It doesn’t work.

Fog smears the glossy mirror as I exhale

taking a step back. I am home alone.

Ma doesn’t act the same anymore; she tries not to remember you.

Last time I visited home m

snow capped the chimney and melted

slowly. It dripped down in the yard with your pine tree. It bends now.

Those kids keep playing in our gate. But it’s not ours anymore.

Your face placed in the center of the building, 662.

The crimson lipstick you made them paint onto full brick lips

and those piercing eyes that follow me as I turn away

from Halsey street.

The trees are naked and the cracks in the sidewalk are filled with grime.

No one sweeps anymore.

I try to conjure you.

No lights flicker. No cabinets open and close. I just feel the heat rise up

the back of my neck and I remember that

August day and the rosy perfume you wore that seemed to fill

the whole hall of the brownstone like the smell of gumbo

in your kitchen. I remember your full lips, the creases

on your forehead-your sick dimples and silver hair cascading in the hard air.