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I got a tattoo

on my left ribcage. It says:

Peace, Love, and Happiness.

It says: Live, Laugh, Love.

It has a dandelion blowing away

in the wind. It has two sparrows.

It has a flock of sparrows. It has a

flock of sparrows leaving

in the wind.

I have a tattoo on my ribcage.

Sometimes it has a

large bird. Sometimes, the bird sits

roundly on plump haunches

like an orange. Some days

it stands on two long bending legs, like

broken chopsticks. On certain days

it is a house. The legs stay.

Some days the house

walks away.

Once, my mother told me

if I got a tattoo I would be

buried a hard mile apart from

the family plots, even if

the tattoo said

Live Laugh Love. Even if

I needed her after

all this. I would have to

roll a long way towards her

in the dirt.

Nowadays, my tattoo

scares me a little

in the morning and in

the mirror when we

are both still damp

from a shower. It seems

to have grown a purpose

in its lines. Sometimes I think

I recognize it. Sometimes

it seems to have a place

for me to go. Sometimes I think

about following and feel

my skin stretching in that

cardinal direction. Still

most mornings I say to myself

I did not ask to be stamped

this way: with some

lost child’s face

looking out from my side.

Originally published in Roanoke Review