Ana-Maria Dragomir, Tattoo
At four, Taipei is made of pink and blue
And all the streets are circular.
I played fifty-two games of mahjong
To get here.
Your hair was red in Valparaíso – two years ago.
The following year, in Macao, one of your sleeves
Rolled down as you danced the Lakhon
And I could see again the thirteen-petal flower
Branded in your skin.
Your hair then had the burnt shades
Of the school of Siena.
Muted tongues of fire
Quietly licked the flower on your shoulder.
At night, the flower grows enormously
Exhausting perfumes wrap around me
Vegetal, clenching
Till I am weary.
My city has risen and fallen fifty-two times
In the meantime.
I played fifty-two games of mahjong
To get here
And see you again.
I fold the maps in three, in four, in five,
And follow you
Wherever.
But as you deal the cards to the dum-dum of this joint
Your hair is blue
The flower’s gone.
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