Pronged stabs puncture my skin;
the liquid marker sketches, outlining.
It is a memory not subject
to the effects of an aging mind.

A reminder permanently branded
into buried layers of my flesh,
tiny opaque domes of blood surge through
as the needle rhythmically whirs, severing skin.

It is an intimate idea,
a thought, a moment,
my trademark permanently etched.
The insufferable pain of each individual prick,
is not nearly as agonizing
as losing the memory marked by this ink.

The smell of disinfectant wafts toward me,
I feel the latex gloves
grazing and manipulating bare skin,
analogous to the antiseptic smells and motions
of a morgue fitting a corpse for funeral.

When my remains are laid
beneath a damp, moss-blanketed headstone,
this illustration will still be there,
stamped on my frozen carcass.

With the sound of tearing bandages
ripping through the air,
I realize this is not intimidating me.
This is exactly what I need:
to peer intently at my reflection
and not take in every blemish,
every dimple, every wrinkle,
but to see a work of art.

My face contorts, grimacing,
eyes squeezing shut,
as they smear stinging sterilizing gel
over the freshly swollen trauma.

My body is transformed
from an imperfect specimen to a painted canvas,
thoughtfully molded with care
and slow strokes.

Some cultures believe in symbols to ward off evil.
Some carry them for luck.
My picture weighs on me
like a lucky cut-off rabbit’s foot secure in my pocket.

Intimately pressing on my rib cage,
rising and falling with each breath,
my heart beating against it just enough to irritate
with each movement as the cotton shirt rubs
just to the side of my breast,
branded across my side,
a memory delineated in a place
only a lover would see.