I went alone, bared the hourglass of my back
to Big Richard whose fingers spelled T-H-I-S

I-S I-T when he fisted his hands together.
"Won't hurt," he grunted, and I wanted to say,
"Richard, I'm here for hurt." He pressed the gun
to me, its needles thrusting in and out faster

than I could separate. Henna-colored ink pulsed
under my skin, and I felt the shape take form,
the circle spiral in. Sweat under my breasts,
on the back of my neck. My body gave itself

to needles. My vision blistered with light.
At home, I peeled the dressing away to stare
at the welt. How strange we have to remind
the body of what it can do, of what it can say.