An orchard
of pain
was tattooed
along the curves
of her body.
The colors
and waves of light,
tendrils of
ink telling her
story.
I ran my
fingers along the
outlines of
her pains and the
tale of each
skin painted picture.
She bit on
the edge of her
thumbnail,
lost in some memory,
looking
outward, into the past.
I was
delicate in my touch,
as she
recalled each tattooed
broken heart
borne on her sleeve.
Stories
written in blood,
over flesh,
scars and time,
now elegant
and masterpieces of coping.
Velvety red roses
dappled in sunlight and
dew, masterfully
drawn to tell the
story of the
loss of her mother.
Orange and
yellow flames flickering in the shadow
of the curve
of her spine, to
illustrate a
near fatal car accident.
Thick green
thorny vines wound around her
hip and across
her belly, her connection
to her lost
child.
Bright azure
birds in flight on her
shoulder
blades over a blackened sky
to mark her
rise over an ever-present sadness.
Each
flourish of ink; pinks, blues,
purples and
yellows, flashing vibrantly,
a swirling
testimonial of survival.
I became
aware of my silence,
awash with
teary-eyed tenderness for the
tough,
tattooed woman.
She lit a
cigarette and exhaled,
blue white smoke
filling the space above her head,
a halo drifting
in the waning daylight.
She spoke
softly, white blanket pulled
modestly
over her legs, plainly speaking
as I plainly
listened.
A carefully
crafted orchard of pain,
etched lovingly
across her skin,
bravely hiding
everything, and nothing.
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