THE TATTOO ARTIST Poem by Silke Scheuermann

Everything etched into the skin
Edged in in black
Even the sun abruptly risen
on the shoulder blade
is rimmed in black

None of the customers
knows how long he
spent looking for
superior black ink
Sometimes he found himself
very much alone with his craziness and his menagerie

The shop was open
but no one went in
They missed
the big-eyed sea-snake
rippling over a sinew

the troll making up
to the shinbone
the little crucified Christ
All the swallows eagles initials
The tattoo artist's conversation

while showing off his designs
See he says Enjoy the lustre
I'm a weakling
someone who stamps a soul
onto the likes of you
But what is life if not
transmutations of hurt
years spent leafing through blueprints
and then a different finger
chooses the best one of all: Death