Not with flowers or poems, 
words on the wind, but a sharing of blood
and pain,

permanent ink.
The L is easy – puncture the skin
and down, draw the dyed thread through

and turn. He grits his teeth and
swears. 
Tears well, magnify his eyes.

Next, I butcher an O into form,
four fish swimming in a broken ring,
lost sperm twitching and dizzy.

Then the V is swift
and clean, two lines become one, 
my best work so far.

Finally the E, 
the stain complete. 
The unspoken signed in flesh.

H should be etched on the next knuckle, 
the left hand yin
to his right hand yang, 

but he stops me here, 
on LOVE, 
clenches his fist and reads.

***

TATTOO was a prizewinner in the Oxo Gallery Art of Love competition