i am marked

Over and over each prod of the needle is a moment

after moment morphing into marked memory.

Like a healer he plays pain into stains of

my spirit embodied in symbols…

permanence on impermanence.

---

Offering my hands in ritual,

I lay into discomfort and agree to the vow of forever.

A friend pierces my skin

as he receives my living, outstretched canvas.

“Mark me with the forms that have transformed me,”

I had asked him for the images of water and rocks

to reflect each other right and left along my palms

in balanced reminders of the elements

that have blessed my soul with a home.

Over and over each prod of the needle is a moment

after moment morphing into marked memory.

Like a healer he plays pain into stains of

my spirit embodied in symbols…

permanence on impermanence.

His lines accolade the bones of my hands

and compliment the wrinkles of life-lines

unfolding in my fingers over time that swims

with me in kinship with the sea.

The waves of ink face the faces of mountains,

the printed peaks that ever present me to shorelines

in swoops of descent.

These are the rhythms of my days spent on earth.

When the mountains transfer their strength

by the stretching of my muscles into growth,

I slip into the salt that heals me,

reprieve from learning, in the power of the ocean.

My friend takes one hand at a time,

teaching me that love sits with pain.

He graces my body with the

literal metaphors that have grounded

and cradled me in our physical realms,

my spirit built into the world

born of the very elements that form

the essential sacraments for a pilgrim and a poet.

He lays down my hands, the ceremony draws to a close

as I draw my palms together,

the prayers of water

and the miracle of stone

are imprinted on my soul

and mirrored on my skin.

With thanks, I am now marked

with the forms that have transformed me.