I told Dad last night

that mom doesn't look beautiful

with her new tattoos.

Snaking their way through

the cracks in her pores.

But I don't like it.

They don't suit her well,

and her love doesn't care for them

either.

Mom's vision was obscured

last time I saw

(I never liked ink),

the liquids snaking

their way through

the cracks in her pores.

Her eye wanted to be

part of the air

an atom,

particle of dust;

a mere fragmentation

in the lull some atmosphere.

But her corneas will never understand

why

they pursue these urges.
The liquids snaking

their way through

the cracks in her pores.

Why purple sets itself down

invitingly

around her protruding

eye.

Why ink stains her skin

like coffee cast over a Sunday morning paper

heartfelt and

unwittingly indolent.

But oh, my star

can we

remove this tattoo

from my mother's skin?

Can we graft the infection

corrupted by this poison

and put it to better

use somewhere

else?

Oh, please, my star,

inhibit this tattoo

that plagues her sweet

supple frame

(cover).

This ink,

poison,

plague,

makes her look too youthful.
The liquids snaking

their way through

the cracks in her pores.

Yes, my star.

Too youthful

(and reticent)