For Léah

An American History of Tattoo Art

The Rose:
Symbolizes the way my chest puzzle pieced perfectly into the chest of my first love. Skin pressed to skin, the rose remembers the smell of the soft skin at the base of their neck. The sneaking suspicion that, however much time passes, years and new lovers, I'll never stop aching for the feel of their skin curled into mine.

Snake:
Not gay as in happy but queer as in fuck you. Beautiful, graceful and venomous. Without legs but so much strength in the way I move across the earth, pressed close to its secrets. Turned on its side and twisted it might look like infinity.

Eye:
Maybe nothing will ever be enough to help me take in the world. Maybe I can stretch my hands open wide and hold my skirt out to catch the pieces that slip through my fingers. Maybe I smell the air, hear the birds, stretch my eyes wide and never miss a sunset.

Skull:
I never meant for immortality to be a theme in this poem but here we are, at death. Or at endings. The irony of a tattoo, lasting forever on your skin when someday your skin will return to the brown earth, skull or no. And then I will finally stop aching for the skin of my first love.

Wings:
There is immortality in stories more than in anything else. The stories I tell myself, my friends, the stories I tell to strangers. The stories I see (hear? know?) with paintings, with sculptures, with written texts, with the pictures I ink onto my body, across my skin. Here is how I will be remembered.