Already they itch, fresh rifts in my skin:
glyphs carved by needle are not wounds,
but excavation: shoulder blade, hip-bone,
and forearms signposted. My first lover
traced words on my back in darkness; now
this lone feather, quill for a god & witch-wand
to his wife, bears stark witness. My friend
of many years, best-beloved, once marked
the spot where forever becomes my flesh.
The man who has coaxed other treasures
over heart-line, nerve-shine, deep-hidden veins
had eyes as old as the hands that once shaped
these sigils to life. His gentle tongue wove
spells as he worked, so fondly revered them.