Tattooed Husband as Lamp
To take the epidermis and stretch it
so light comes through: that’s love. Bright burn
in the Blakian sense. Your body’s curated
gallery exhibit: lotus bloom, Nietzsche aphorism,
Edvard Munch’s Scream in the throes
of the 80s punk scene, Pan above left wrist.
Yours–the last rind I’d see before I rest,
night lit throughout, like so many before.
Or a vest, patchwork quilt of flesh covering
this heart split open like an overripe melon.
A satchel and the journal’s hide, canteen,
a kite to fly, curtains, handkerchief, shroud,
shawl to draw over shoulders and head, a cape.
I want them all and none because I want you,
who’s breathed me in, left your acrid sweat
in sheets. Your eyes mirror the Atlantic
mirroring sky, where I can be all creatures
waterborne and ambit-bound. My painted man,
his marvel act: to slip beneath my skin. I carry
him and love’s crooked route charted in vein.