For the Tattooed Man

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.