The Tattooed Lady
One tattoo is a reminder of the guy
whose throat you slit.
That’s a red slice
not a wayward smile.
And, with belly button,
those eyes make three.
And here’s another pattern on your shoulder,
a heart this time.
You like having a heart there
where you can see it.
Better than behind your rib cage.
There’s an arrow through the initials, MK.
But that’s because the tattooist
was struggling with the jagged dagger you requested.
A devil straddles your spine.
It’s a she of course:
well-dressed but horned,
left foot in high heels,
the right one cloven.
And both ankles boast
a bloody image
from the loser you stomped on
in the bathroom of that punk club.
Your body is a history
of all you’ve done,
what makes you who you are.
And it’s not done yet
with its illustrations.
Every suffocation,
each poisoning,
will get its moment in the needle’s glare.
But then there’s the guy
whose skin you totally flayed.
You’re having a tough time
replicating that one.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Big Muddy Review, Willow Review and Louisiana Literature.
