Tattoo, in the Morning
By Turi Sioson
Artwork by Emma Bieber
first week / of unappointed august. we make eye contact / across the sonic space of / tia blake’s plastic jesus, the bald artist next to us / begging please free us, bring the rock back, man // roky erickson choked into / us for three hours / straight.
i try not to think / of the air right through his teeth / that two hours ago might / have been funny, but now we’re wanting a/c / on our tattoo-heavy / bodies // we pick up burgers and go home bleeding, / slightly damp and plasma leaking: precursor
to the breakdown / in my bathroom, unsticky with saniderm / on needy, blood-slick lines. i think of / calling you on the third / try, de-escalate myself / with the sink and the / lie of good sleep / right out of the shower // reality promises crookedness, and long / awake hours / wondering / where it is i’ll bruise.
i count myself to sleep / with jokes made out of / spring water on a swimming trip two weeks ago, / texas tunes and heat that blows our / darkened hair back to dry // i know nothing else of love / but how tenderly you dare / me to hold my breath to scare me / and i / revel in the way / you and jazz sing a quiet song; in how i / don’t have to hold my arm out / for so long / before diving myself back in // this ink is months old; / do you want to watch me spin?
early june, i fix myself to the ratio / of sun to water exposure / and listen to you laugh / from four feet above, shorts left on to tempt me out / of submerging all of my limbs // closed teeth, rolled tongue, i think of me with purple / fins and mermaid powers, splash your back to / make you cower.
in the middle of our appointment, my calf begins / to peel: week-old lines, no surprise; i paid $450 for my coworkers to mistake its lines // that’s darker than my / stick-and-poke; / i love red pandas, those shallow / strokes!; how are you not / already going / broke?
the peeling starts paws-up / from untucked tail, our third / hour of hunger that suddenly dovetails / into sighs, our artist tapping / on your thigh so she might get / a level eye // your stencil is the bic blue of anticipation, a promise and a first / look and a / little demarcation / of where / for the next three weeks / you will not want / to lean. / i pass the time thinking of / every summer hour lost
to the shadows / of a perfect day — an attempt at healing that doesn’t / sweat or burn the edges / or make it all go grey. / i wonder, vaguely, how the 3 will / look when i am 80 / and moisturized above the elbow if the thought of your birthday will remind me to / buy tulips / next tuesday or meet you / at the cafe // will i remember us, crying / in the / parking lot, arm to arm and sweating / in the front seats of / your car. will i remember us standing / to / linger over time / stolen / from your pre-departure. when i slather / too much / lavender will i think of these lines as doors
that open / into moments: first compliments, and misinterpreting / what it meant to hold / steady hands / over second skin, to spend mornings scrubbing / plasma from my slimy, weeping skin; / to offer jasmine gentle probing / two weeks before i want it, to tie myself, / permanently, to the people / i’ve always / wanted.