Lipstick
The knot of six or seven
boys dashed back & forth
against the strobe
of sun through pines, lipstick
slurred across their chins
& cheeks. I stumbled,
a few delirious streaks
crosshatching my brow,
across the stippled field
of corn plowed
under. We were far
past the ditch of poison
ivy & jewel weed, far
from the closest house
where, an hour before
we’d raided one of our mothers’
dresser tops for lipstick’s
barrage of colors—
Tropic Sunrise, Chili
Burn, Wine-Dark Plum,
their names as lavish
as their hues. Then we ran
off to the woods
where we could rub
those shades onto the ends of our
swords—sticks, really,
a slew of bent
branches that we’d ripped
from live trees so that rot
wouldn’t sneak up on us
mid-combat. Then
it was every shirtless boy
for himself, each waving his
sword, some with the precision
of a compass, others
as wild as a blind
dervish. As we lunged
toward each other, backed away,
lunged & retreated,
someone across the field
might have mistaken our moves
for an elaborate dance—glide
& stretch, turn & counterturn—
until finally, the sky dizzy
above us, we sprawled
on the matted gold
of grass, all of us slashed
& branded with sham
blood. After the heat
of battle, we’d check ourselves,
showing off with pride
a swath of unscathed flesh,
&: I got you there.
Yeah but I got you
there. Then we’d help
each other rub off
the scars, smearing the lipstick
into the various tones
of our skin. Not one of us
had yet received an errant
blur of lipstick
from another’s mouth.
Though we might have bragged
differently, it’d be years
until our first real
kisses, & a few weeks
after that before our first
breakups. But here we were practicing
for all the wounds
we’d earn in the coming
years, & here we were,
all of us so eager
to go out & receive them.
So I want to hold on
to those days just before
the onslaught of all those
more lasting scars,
when we lay spread-eagled
next to each other, sweaty
with our own hurt & healing,
when we still couldn’t tell
wounds from kisses.
Stephen Cramer’s first book of poems, Shiva’s Drum, was selected for the National Poetry Series and published by University of Illinois Press. His second, Tongue & Groove, was also published by University of Illinois. From the Hip, which follows the history of hip hop in a series of 56 sonnets, and A Little Thyme & A Pinch of Rhyme, a cookbook in haiku and sonnets, came out from Wind Ridge Press in 2014 and 2015. Bone Music, his most recent collection, was selected by Kimiko Hahn for the 2015 Louise Bogan Award and published in 2016 by Trio House Press. His work has appeared in journals such as The American Poetry Review, African American Review, The Yale Review, Harvard Review, and Hayden’s Ferry Review. An Assistant Poetry Editor at Green Mountains Review, he teaches writing and literature at the University of Vermont and lives with his wife and daughter in Burlington.