Poetry
Charley Allen
Prelude
I remember the moon was full when we went to get tattoos, old symbols
for zodiac signs, black runes scarring our left shoulders. A bonding
ritual, maybe, I am still not sure, we were friends, then, but still
not quite close enough to garner matching scars, but I wanted
something to touch, a raised brand to feel forever and remember you.
And you were nervous, short of breath and sweating. We walked outside
to wait, looked at the full moon weighing heavy in the night sky, sat
on the sidewalk and talked without really saying anything. I sat so
close that my knee kept grazing yours and by the time they called us
in, I was giddy and reeling from the magic of the night, the
electricity of each touch I claimed was accidental.
I went first and let a man whose name I cannot recall dip his needle
in ink and then into my skin, and back again. I grimaced and bit my
lip, picturing you to get through the first moments of pain before the
adrenaline kicked in. When I was finished, you took my seat and I
insisted on holding your hand. I held on tight and stood beside you,
spouting off lines from movies you liked, and messing up.
On the ride home, we scrunched up close in the backseat, giggled and
sang. And I wanted Wes to take the long way back, relishing the heat
of you against me, the sound of your voice tickling my ear. The car
was jammed full and I think they all knew before we did that something
was about to change.
Later, we celebrated our new scars with beer and shots of Tequila.
Later, still, I found you alone in the kitchen and handed you a poem.
You read it as I swayed and waited, nervous of the line I had crossed.
You smiled, crossed five feet that felt like ten miles, and kissed my
forehead. I closed my eyes and inhaled, somewhere inside sure that the
feel of your lips on my skin was a goodbye of some kind. You kissed my
cheek and before I even had time to react, moved on to my lips.
This poem appeared in Notations literary magazine, Murray State
University, 2003.
