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The colour of her Kohl uncertain,
She flips the pages of the magazines.
No hints, no clues, no advice.
Disgused as the voice of reason:
Common sense.
She paints her eyes to burnt orange 
To match her dark complexion,
She wears a flowery gown still in fashion 
 
She arrives at the party
Surveying the naked eyes staring 
At the starry night.
 
She wrecks her brains 
About an ill-advice
Of staring at the stars with
Naked eyes.
Her mind is blank.
 
Why is no one wearing Kohl anymore?
All the females are in strippy gowns.
The invitation said flowery gowns.
Is this a postmodern take
To flowery fashion?
 
She takes off her glasses 
And wipes them clean
The stripes are still hurting her vision
 
Where is she?
Why are all the familiar faces
In stripes and not flowers?
 
The loud music plays 
Familiar tunes
Bob Marley, the Doors
She floats to the music
Ripples of her hem.
Though this enigma;
Still unresolved;
Is niggling her.
 
She strikes up  a conversation 
With a handsome 
Blond youth.
He admires her Kohl
Burnt orange and all.
Pays a complement about 
Her rose tinted complexion 
She blushes even more.
Though the conundrum
Is still there
Unresolved.
 
She puts on her brave face 
And asks
"The flowers are hidden 
Behind the stripes."
He answers casually
No touch of irony.
How she demands to know?
"Simple," he answers,
"Dresses are multi layered"
She feels like a fool.
She reproaches to the question 
Of lack Kohl.
"No one cares to hide 
Their eyes no more."
The youth 
Says
"I like a woman in Kohl."
  
Yasemin Balandi

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