Took ink from pen and made my blood jealous when woman pressed thin-tipped instrument against my skin and pushed poems in.
On a Wednesday, filled notebook with lines from long poem in progress called, on blood and the tantrums of memory and went to university where I decided I would workshop the poem placed on my body. Save paper. Be green.
Filled up left arm and shoulder and all fingers, covering hand with lines.
On the parts I could not reach, I had help to reach them.
In class, I asked a wonderful poet named Rachel Jackson to read me. Pick the order. Repeat lines. You have that control. I stood still, wearing sleeveless shirt and words while she translated the lines.
Beauty exists in our bodies’ scars. In our bodies creases and looseleaf bends. Our bodies are instruments. Speaker boxes. Sexual deviants. Digesters of all elements surrounding it. How wonderful to forego paper for an evening and celebrate the palate of skin that has traveled with me (in different ways, shapes, forms) since birth.