Getting Inked at 67

Session One

It is chilly inside and out — Tuesday
in March, everyone masked, but the
repurposed massage table reminds me
that my largest organ, my skin,
will soon serve as canvas rather than
just a tan corporeal container.

The air, a faint wash of spearmint and
isopropanol, as I unpeel my
shirt and lay down, right arm propped
on the black, steri-film wrapped rest. We
agreed on the design, but Keith craves
more skin and complexity. Who,

am I to disagree, an old man
trying to drop the reins and embrace
the universe? Getting inked means
letting go — angst evaporating
like a kettle left too long on the stove.
New image, a helical dragon

complementing the koi ascending
a waterfall on my inner forearm,
replica of Eisen’s 1835 color
woodblock. The new tat completes the
origin story of dragons — a school
of koi climbs a waterfall — all but one

murdered by goblins, and at the top
the lone koi evolves, now the Adam
of dragons. Today it’s line-work,
black frames to enclose the…