The Edge of Childhood

I called you the day my childhood tipped up at the ends,
crumbled beneath its eggshell satin finish,
and disappeared.
We stapled missing posters
to maimed telephone poles,
checked behind the too-tall rosebush
for a grinning little girl.
She didn't show until the first of June,
two days before my twelfth birthday;
I saw her scratching a scab at the bus stop,
plastic stick-on earrings and a tutu,
mom's makeup dabbed on her mouth, cheeks.
This is how
I must look
in lipstick.
I've spent my whole life since
measuring the distance between then and now.