by Lori Lamothe
The Romans referred to these tattooed tribes in Latin as “Pictii,” which translates as “The Painted Ones.” -John Corney
The past opens its pores until at last
I’m drawing a diary of remembering—
battles strung across the small of my back,
a lover’s ghost haunting a shoulder blade,
the birth of a child balanced on a curve of hip.
My skin pricked with so much blue
all the pain turns inside out—
my mind freed (for a space of curving stars)
of all the men I’ve killed,
of the unborn fallen out of my body.
Come closer. There’s nothing to fear.
That flashing of silver is only a mirror
that turns ink to sky. Come.
Open your palms across my belly
and scan this book of stained-glass song.
Lori Lamothe’s first book of poetry, Trace Elements, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in December. She is also the author of several chapbooks, including Ouija in Suburbia, (Dancing Girl Press, forthcoming 2014). She lives and teaches literature in New England.