The ink is fading from my skin
(what a way for a flower to die)
and my mind turns to the marks
I left on yours, a calling card,
an autograph from the artist
who was proud of her creation,
proud even of the clay
for the way it yielded to her touch,
the way it sprawled and grew
along her scaffolding,
a scandent vine, responsive
to her pruning, grateful
for her tender and attentive cultivation.
I stop myself from calling up
the photographic evidence
(it profits me little to tread that water
when I am meant to be swimming
upstream), but I allow myself to wonder
if you’ve scrubbed off your Irish contraception
with elbow grease that would impress
even the most fastidious mam,
as though erasing this sign
makes you any less mine.
Tattoo
By
Spilled Ink from the Vault 