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Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Tattoo




You do know, right,
that between the no-

longer & the still-
to-come

you are being continually
tattooed, inked

with the skulls of
everyone

you’ve ever loved—the you
& the you

& the you & the you—you don’t
sit in a chair, thumb

through a binder, pick a
design, it simply

happens each time you
bring your fingers to your face

to inhale him back into you . . .
tiny skulls, some of us are

covered. You, love, could

simply tattoo an open
door, light

pouring in from somewhere
outside, you

could make your body a door
so it appears you

(let her fill you) are made
of light.

About This Poem

“A parenthetical appears in the last couplet of this poem, an aside I have no memory writing ‘(let her fill you),’ interrupting the hermetic seal of the poem, a wind blowing through an open door, just before we leave.”—Nick Flynn


Nick Flynn is the author of My Feelings (Graywolf Press, 2015). He teaches at the University of Houston and splits his time between Houston, Texas, and Brooklyn, New York.

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