Tattoo

India ink harpoons its way into fabric

strung around alabaster bone,

staining cloth with polychromic significance,

injecting an artist’s rendering of alternative beauty

between the stitches

of an otherwise ordinary material.

And the canvas draped down the side of my neck

bends toward the needle

stationed between practiced fingers,

tissue yearning to quicken the rate of absorption,

faster, so that

this masterpiece can be displayed in exhibition

for the ordinary world to consider.

This canvas,

blank – clear

that conventional parents threaded

and time blemished into ordinary imperfection,

will irrevocably bear witness to

the colors

the fluidity,

the vibrancy that is and will always be

indicative of me.