Flvctvat nec mergitvr

I surrender my body to an ancient art, skilled hands marking
and wounding, needles entering layers of the psyche, transforming pain

into healing. The tattoo artist’s hands rest on my right thigh as he bends
and labours over his art, my body, bringing me towards my becoming.

First, he shaves my skin, then carefully transfers the template,
tracing the black outline. For six long hours, the intermittent hum

and whirr of metal on wet flesh, lemon cake and toilet breaks.
Shading for depth and colour, which shocks and sears

my back, nerves writhing and pulling with each precise dip.
One learns to stay calm and breathe. One learns to ride the storm.

The body as a map to be written and read, navigating the shifting tides.
This is the path I have chosen, to chart a course into the open

with a purple compass, sea green anchor, frayed rope and the blessings
of two sea birds, wings outstretched, circling.