Tattoo

Tattoo



In front of Nick’s Fierce Pierce Tattoo Parlor the old woman dropped her grocery bag—

onions skipped like stones into gutter, rolling too far to catch, too fast.



Near the end of the man’s boot a can of creamed corn rocked.

The old woman stooped and grunted after her condensed and discounted treasures.



Before the man could think, creamed corn appeared like a weight in his hand—

arm outstretched—the man could not resist admiring his new tat.



Nick had outdone himself—dragon flame licked the man’s wrist.

Blue veins pulsed beneath arching neck—fire and fantasy.



Out of reflex, he tightened muscle and sinew, dragon’s tail twitching,

groceries forgotten, woman gone, art made of skin and ink.



She reached for the can, her skin, tissue thin over pelican bones, when—

a flash of ink caught his eye, a tired line of numbers marching across her forearm,

blurred, faint, draining away into a fading life—dreadful.



He forgot to let go of the can, above creamed corn and dragon’s blood their eyes met.

From a nest of crisscrossed lines her eyes smiled, into his, hers full of trembling, his full of wondering.



On a puff of garlic and peppermint, an old woman’s voice murmured, “Danke.”

Tugging at the can, her accent slight, a hint, she said, “What a kind, good boy.”



Stepping away, he dropped the can into the bag, dragon swelling, contracting,

sack filling, onions saved from gutter, woman saved from that final solution.



Shortening his stride, the man walked the old woman to the bench, and waited in silence

near her, and watched as she waved from the bus, her tattoo a blur of ash and ink.