I received this poem in my inbox this morning from the Poetry Foundation and I really liked it so I thought I'd share.
For the Tattooed Man by Sharmila Voorakkara
Because she broke your heart, "Shannon"'s a badge--
a seven-letter skidmark that scars up
across your chest, a flare of indelible script.
Between "Death or Glory", and "Mama", she rages,
scales the trellis of your rib cage;
her red hair swings down to bracket your ankles, whip
up the braid of your backbone, cuff your wrists. She keeps
you sleepless with her afterimage,
and each pinned and martyred limb aches for more.
Her memory wraps you like a vise.
How simple the pain that trails and graces
the length of your body. How it fans, blazes,
writes itself over in the blood's tightening sighs,
bruises into wisdom you have no name for.
It also came with this little blurb by Ted Kooser which irritated me:
"Among young people, tattoos are all the rage and, someday, dermatologists will grow rich as kings removing them from a lot of middle-aged people who have grown embarrassed by their colorful skins. I really like this poem by Sharmila Voorakkara of Ohio."
You know, because everyone who gets tattoos are drunken college kids who do it on a whim. *eyeroll*
* I totally stole that from a lovely little tree