poems*

No. 3

A splotch of red, the shape of an orange.

Up you travel, a river of black ink,

Swirling, around a mountain of muscle,

Deep, jagged cuts trace through,

Across an expanse of ribs,

Another cut, deep and long,

Above it, a face of beauty,

Over the shoulder, a line of ink,

Leads to a list of names,

Two crossed out with cuts.