9–5

Do it everyday

until it’s done to death.

The quotidienne,

charm never ends.

She to me is a squadron of lipsticks,

Reserves in sterile bullets.

The near-uniform boxes quiver

Begging to remain

Unused. Untouched.

-

Maybe I’m a lipstick, in that way.

I wonder what number is under my feet?

My gloss— my shade

Will I shine, will the stain fade.

I am lipstick in that way, a servile bullet.

We stand, poised in the light,

Bright shopping chamber,

Irreplaceable once fired.

All Rights Reserved. Kira Mungai, 2023