There are things carved in relief.

Like the skeletons of churches,
a sub-rosa apparatus beneath bone.
I am always drowning in marrow.

Decision tips an hourglass;
what was sand is smoke.

She got her first tattoo
in a shop on second street;
a kite that ribboned its tail
around her wrist.

Years later, a diner in Trent;
a backwash of Bakelite and teak.
She smoked clove cigarettes,
lips drawn in stichlines.

We questioned, teeth to skin,
reflections in a third eye;
images fell from an iris' edge-
impressions lost in the drift.

Borromean dropped a ring,
what was left was crossed.

Behind a heavy door,
a kite with a faded tail
identifies the wrist.

A man in a smock with sleeves
too short for his arms
traces its marbled flight;
beneath his palm he knows
every scar is a victory.


StillMa said...

Oh yes... the door creaks open and Mama Tatt walks through.
She is back.

KGT (aka Cagey) said...

Glad to see you back.

Cynthia said...

things carved, leave their mark
forever, inform lives.

enjoyed the spareness of your
poetry, the truth.

gel(Emerald Eyes) said...

Strong, stark
and victorious poem