Lavender Shift

Inside, we touch lipsticks
the color of sixth grade—
holographic lavender
like we wore when we lied
about everything.

Colors named for things
we thought we’d one day hold:
Whim, Halo, Vibe,
Moonflower,
Violet Wish.

When I walk,
I think—
were the aisles always this narrow?

Each shade,
I count past versions of myself
like mannequins
left too long in display.

Between the palettes:
sugarplum shimmer,
glass slipper,
galaxy spill,
diamond dust.

This was our temple.
Not the sanctuary
in the trees,
Echo Lake,
or nights at the beach—
but a Maryland strip mall
where girls once wore
silvery lip gloss like armor.

We browse and say
they don’t make ‘em down here
like they do back in Jersey.

So we drive—
from opposite ends—
to look for that same lipstick.

Not because I need it.
Because I want to remember
who I thought I’d be.

Lavender shimmer
with just enough frost
to look holy,
under Ulta’s lights.

A rainbow of purples
swiped across the backs
of our hands.

I forgot the gift card.
She says,
that’s not why we came.

We talk about
our mothers—
how we never
stopped trying to be
the best versions of ourselves.

Still girls
who wore glitter,
believing they couldn’t be harmed.

She tells me about the time
you helped her
get her Ford Focus
out of the mud.

I say,
I’m doing bad.
She says,
I know.

We stay for an hour,
maybe more.

The testers leave stains
on my hand
I don’t wipe off.

The colors weren’t quite right—
or maybe
just not how I remember them.

DARA LAINE

Dara Laine (she/her) is a poet based in Baltimore, originally from a hay farm in New Jersey. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in American Poetry Journal, Pine Hills Review, LEON Literary Review, and Bellevue Literary Review, among others. She was a Tupelo Press 30/30 poet in July 2025.