Stigmata of Spring
In a room full of men I remove my shirt and lie down.
Feel but don’t meet their gaze.
The needle whirrs a little, a test.
Close my eyes and see mother working at the Singer
December afternoons before bartending nights,
tired of us looking thwarted and poor.
Smell my blood mix with ink and adrenaline.
Arousing to be the object of keen attention.
For hours I am a still nude.
As girls my friends and I would trace letters
on each other’s bare backs with our fingertips.
Excuse to give affection in our parentless homes.
I surrender to the electricity and his tender hands
that sketch and sew an iris and its purple vulva
into my back and blade. No words. The needle’s hum
is a vow, drowning jerry-rigged lovers and son,
flogging my flaws and scars. To bear the sacred
and taboo: an iris ardent enough to flavor gin.
He cleans and bandages my back like a hurt child.
Instructions, a swirl of pride and empathy,
for now it’s mine to carry, heal, and love.
Eventually, the iris bleeds, crackles, shimmies out nubile,
my stigmata of spring. It draws the hands of lovers
and my son, who puts his lips to it and whispers “tattoo.”