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