I want the black ink
To mark me.
The small, stabbing needle
To etch scars, fine as lace,
Along the curve of my shoulder, my tapering arm.
I want to craft a new sleeve of my life,
A design of flowers, rockets, blooming stars,
A network of color charting how I come to my 50th year—
No longer married,
No longer with you,
No longer afraid of everything that is indelible.
Under the needle, the blood runs,
The ink spreads and blooms.
Soon, the flesh scabs and heals
Marked with a new design.
Note: I used to be a serious writer--this is the first poem I have written in at least 5 years.
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