Mary’s Poem
Written by request for my sister
Who wanted me to write a poem
That she could turn a line from into a tattoo
Mary, when I emerged from
the existential doubt our
Last chat plunged me into,
I felt guarded, yet flattered and
cautious in the face
of this brave new permanent kindness.
Between the
alpha and omega
tattooed on your right foot
is the realization that
your body and life are yours
for the duration of the lease.
Sometimes the rent is high and
unfair, but it nets you a home.
My fear of tattoos on me
is another expression of uncertainty in the face of questions
that wander around the living room in the afternoon
and wonder, “Will hair grow on my back someday?”
Will I get my fair share of happiness or cancer?
Is there an alley between love and dissolution
where their is refuge from either?
Will I always stand by
tattooing “tattoos are dumb”
on my bum?
You too are an overthinker.
So we indulge our love of over-consideration and declare that
tattoos at their worst are tramp stamps that still make us smile,
and at their best
they are living poetries,
pillars of who we were
branded on who we are
to stabilize ourselves against
who we might become.
I do not imagine grandma sorry her name is
signed on your chest like past birthday checks.
When they say you are like her,
they mean her virtues.
She knew she was not an easy woman to love
but once
you saw how
her thoughts thirsted
for brimming glasses in a half full
life you understood
you overlooked.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when you
were weaned off diapers,
how you learned to talk and walk,
drive and hold opinions, kiss boys,
work, go to college and live a life.
I do know we were created by the same embrace,
which conspired on either side of the glass decade between us.
That light in the distance you see when you close your eyes tight
is our family’s unique illumination,
the light we see in each other,
which sometimes is the glow
of Isaac miscalculating the Light Bright
and setting fire to Teresa’s rabbit.
Some tattoos are
punishable only by
glares of your peers,
but judgment says more about
The giver than the receiver.
People, Mary, even shitty ones, are generally good.
Those who forget your name,
the ones who can’t place your face,
or forgets where your tattoos are hidden,
will never forget the time
that you put their family dog in the give-away
section of the newspaper, and you won’t forget
times you showed them kindness when
what they really deserved was a roundhouse.
In case you haven’t stumbled upon this already:
Never hesitate to pick up crayons and color in the drabs of our days.
Bear this world like a gladiator who has been told
“Win the fight with the angry lion, then defeat the bear,
waste the alligator and you will win
free muffins and coffee for life.”
Or, bear this world like a Koala bear
Who knows there are forests of answers to
the question of “how your eucalyptus needs will be met?”
Better yet, bear this world like Ron Swanson and face it
with a moustache first
and proud
preach your person
sing your shanties
create your own universe,
connect your own dots
mark your own constellations and don’t let Orion or me or
that ladle, The Big Downer, make that silly claim that
the world at large seems to believe, that just because we
were here first, our creations are preeminent and more permanent
than what your new unhampered mind will see from our shoulders.
So fill your sky with your own meanings and understandings
and I will share my constellations with you and learn from yours,
and we can borrow each other’s stars and turn the night sky
into something it has never been, despite its eternity.
