a journal of fantastical poetry

Ink Archaeologist

by A.J. Odasso

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.

September 24th, 2012

web design © mitchell hart