Tattoo
I said my goodbyes last night. Stood naked
full length at the mirror fossiled with fingerprints;
studying the canvas of my left arm and chest as if
it were an old friend I knew I wouldn’t see again.
He asks if I’m ready. His needle, my skin: two magnets
poised like two teens about to kiss for the first time.
His latex fingers, albino wrinkled lizards, rub against
my arm with the smell of hospital waiting rooms. I don’t
think of what he’s adding, but what he’s taking away.
Rubbing me clean with the residue ink and blood
droplets.His pen of adrenaline aggrevating a nest
of wasps on my upper arm. He asks why: casually, bored,
There’s not much I can answer with he hasn’t heard before.
I tell him I am digging myself out of my own skin, piece by piece,
like fingernails digging out of a grave; or wiping away dirt
from a window, unsure of what I’m going to find inside.
He pauses, mutters under his breath ..mate, then continues.