Tatow

The years of marriage can be counted like lines

dark as any made by a thread-wrapped needle dipped in ink inflicted with the same grunting force as a thin-lipped woman with a thorn-tipped stick, is it love that holds you down

or just the restraining weight you can’t shake free?

There are consequences for complaining, for those small, quiet sounds you think no one can hear in the middle of the night. Those have all been tallied and when you finally die, your complaints will be

imprinted on your skin in indelible ink for all to see, buried deep inside the son and daughter who watched your dreams fold in like a wrinkled butterfly a specimen drawer of dreams pushed down by the end of a pin.