Kohl

O Cleopatra, O Tin Hinan, O Beloved

Prophet, the very first time I found 

myself lovely, I had turned to face

the Kohl’s dressing room mirror, saw

a head of oaky curls and iris-rimmed eyes. 

Every morning after, I’d blink 

the granulate in, allow it to make me cry

electric tears, forgive 

the streaks on the bridge of my nose,

the stateliness of my cheeks.

The powder, deep-ocean, 

iceberg-bummock, spreads from the wet 

of the eyes to the back 

of the throat;

your nose drips blue,

you spit blue 

for days.

Once, when my mom used the wood 

stick, like a toothpick 

but sturdier, to swipe it into the slit 

of my eye, she scratched the cornea,

leaving a red line down the center. 

In my cousin’s room, we talk 

about the arm hair 

on our wrists which bracelets 

rip. They say it’s the only spot

they shave. 

For makeup, they really 

only wear le kohl.