I have a friend who has tattoos
of a skull and crossbones on her arms,
and sandpaper scars, and down her spine
multicolored butterflies; a tender lady
who talks of redemption, and often
washes my pain away.
.
Sometimes, I am my father,
who thought a laugh worth any price
if paid by someone else,
or my mother,
weeping the morning long
for no reason she could think of.
.
All my tattoos are inside my skin,
of Mom and Dad, and caterpillars
down my back. My scars
don’t show, but when I speak
you hear my father, and my mother
when I can’t. Sometimes it seems
that tender only enters me
when paper words escape
the silence of my pen.
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