Inked

Matching tattoos we got in a hurry,
a flurry of drinks
perhaps too many
as you ordered another scotch
(make it two!)
and slid one thick-bottomed glass
down the counter into
my hands.
Looking like apple juice
we drank and sang 
with some jukebox in 
an odd corner
with the beat of billiard balls.

It was one scotch
and two beers
maybe three or four more,
and eventually 
a martini or seven.

And that was the line 
into blacked-out, censored
living where what I wanted to
see wasn't there.
Your hands on my waist
and mine in your shirt.
I laughed to loud on the train,
the car rattling down
the tunnel.

But I couldn't find the light,
except the fluorescents 
making your hair a quick pale
and you marveled at the map
of Manhattan and said
"I really want a tattoo."

The alcohol spoke for you
and for me and I knew a great place
on tenth. 

Hip tattoos, god forbid,
we laid with our pants rolled down
and you were slurring so bad
the guy with the needles and gloves
almost refused to ink you.

In the moment of ink in my bloodstream
I was overjoyed with 
this sense of our beings,
and the ink coursed with the scotch
and the stars looked 
so good on our bones 
we high-fived and missed.

The next morning
with traffic in my ears
and light in every space
I called you,
coffee in my mouth.

I laughed, actually.
You said 'fuck off'
and then I said 
'tattoos, remember?'

Our laughs were hungover
but clean, and clear our teeth
clean with gin and pabst.
And the stars 
still looked good,
and we'd keep them in our bones
forever.

My hand ran over the sore
throbbing skin and it was clean
and sober and painted.
And a few blocks over
your hand touched your hip bone
and we felt the jolt in our palms.

The stars looked better ever since,
and on the nights we
sing loud and drink 
too much maybe,
we touch the stars as we dance
and forever the ink runs clean 
and clear in our veins.