The Needle
I.
Ink drips in my skin,
sinks in my bone,
paints a line of new birth.
The bitter tears,
a medicine,
a remedy.
The needle cuts shallow
into skin,
like a soft caress,
but from the pain
within.
The ‘L’ swoops
slowly,
circling
into the ‘o’ that follows.
The strokes echo
the ones they made in softer ink
years ago.
Nonna’s and Papa’s,
an excerpt of their
love
and a bit of their promise
to always.
It settles in,
swirls
over smooth,
thin layers of skin.
It bites in
cursive and
metamorphoses as it
sets in.
A permanent memory,
not a remedy,
but a promise.
II.
The needle sinks
into the patient’s
skin.
Long day done,
the dance
begins.
He sees her,
slowing circling
to where she stands.
It’s quick,
he’s hooked,
and then she’s gone.
Another needle,
a mundane day.
He calls her again,
the War begins.
And the feeling sinks in,
settles
over callouses around
thin layers of skin
covering the pain within.
Pen tip to ink
to paper,
the promise
to love
and to always.
A permanent remedy,
now a memory,
and a promise.