Bible Ink

Stencil forged precisely to the hip margin.

A sip of Irish Whisky.

Not for good measure.

The contours are textbook.

Vintage spring loaded Viceroy razor.

The canvas is esetablished.

Disarming deposits of ink into  d  e  r  m  i  s.

Pounding skin wasnt always her thing.

After all the wife of a pastor.

Pews that spewed false witness.

Each pass of the needle would lay claim.

This covering belonged to her.

Two doves kissing the neck.

An angel crying on the thigh.

A rose to caress the tricep.

An owl stretching on the collar bone.

Feathers falling down her chest.

Every place he left a scar she hid.

Her story will be told outwardly.

She lets rain fall into the pages of her Bible.

These words pressed into parchment.

P  e  r  m  a  n  e  n  t.

Her God will be known by her skin.

The next piece is a lantern on her foot.

She wiggles her toes in anticipation.


This poem is about: 
My community
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