Before That Winter

The tin was in the coat pocket—

the one I haven't worn in two winters.

Dented on one side. Lid still on.

I checked the bottom.

The expiration date was from before.

Before the year things got hard,

before the calls that came in the morning,

before I learned to recognize

a certain kind of silence

on the other end of the phone.

I used it anyway.

Stood at the bathroom mirror

and applied it while I thought

about where I was when I bought it—

what city, what store,

whether I was already tired

or still just ordinary tired.

I can't remember.

But whoever bought it

didn't know yet.

Didn't know who'd be gone

by the time it expired.

My lips stopped cracking.

The tin's on the sink, lid off.

A fingerprint in the surface

where I pressed.