Mascara

Baby wipes morph into make-up wipes almost overnight, 
mascara and liner stains for eyes that need no help,
if anyone cared to ask me, which they don't. 
Eyes too sad, filled with worries 
that aren't hers but she grasps them stubbornly
the way she used to seize my finger,
surprising both of us with her strength.
I'd like to see more weakness,
face relax, shoulders sigh and melt
into a belly laugh now and then.
Girls in other lands would be married by this time,
toting babies, old at thirty;
she's luckier than she knows. But
the drama, angst, monumental
decisions over which shoes to wear to school
feel more real right now than life itself. 
I'm not so old that I've forgotten what that was like,
but let's keep that to ourselves, shall we?
The age card, sage wisdom, is the only one
I've got to play, tucked inside my pocket
just in case.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012