Tattoo
What does it feel like? Warm and searing: you drag your fingers along the radiator to test if it’s heating up. Repetitively blunt: your arm is that potato you want for dinner that’s stuck all over with a fork to make sure the steam has somewhere to go. Instead of steam out, these needles let ink in.
What does it feel like? You’re a bumble bee: your whole self buzzes from the inside out, a live mirror held up against the whirring machine.
Kafka called it a cutting knife – a murderous harrow haranguing an unnamed victim.
What does it feel like? What I imagine being a piece of fabric would be like: held in place by the machine’s foot, it starts up as a sewing needle drops down and up, puncturing a thread along a straight line. This needle leaves a dark deposit of ink.
Kafka was always a little melodramatic.
The first night is never comfortable, microscopic warriors posed to invade the (artistic) open wound – keep it away from the pillow, the bed sheet, your own hair. Just put the appendage on a shelf and pick it up in the morning. It’s easier this way. I find it will unscrew easily at the shoulder joint.
You try different methods, revering the mirror all the while and evaluating the dissipating scar tissue. Discount saran wrap is messy, always sticking to itself instead of you. Medical grade saran wrap is expensive and holds your skin hostage. Warm water gets everywhere, a child playing in the sink. The footprints of spider feet fall off in the water. The whole thing looks the way I imagine a newborn to feel: wet, slick, and shining. Maybe it will jump ship and slip off my arm, sliding down the drain.
What does it feel like? An exhaustive new pet you quickly tire of taking care of but love showing off to the neighbors; instead of food and water, this one requires zinc oxide and petroleum. Groom it daily and it will be kind to you.
Why not just hang the art you love in your home? My body is my most reliable home. Boxes of short sleeve shirts and extra uniform pants sit up in a storage room in Mississippi. A headboard and box-spring sit in a basement in Illinois. My diplomas hang in my childhood bedroom. All of my current belongings fit into a red backpack. Let’s lighten the load and turn myself into a gallery wall. Hang me anywhere and turn me toward the sun – I look best during the golden hour. Admire me from all angles; admission is free.