Indelible Ink

Linked

The Child is father of the Man

—William Wordsworth

Rory had always liked the tattoo of Hatteras

on my forearm, so

when it came time we met over at Cooper’s

High Dive, up the alley

off Main Street where I held the glass door open  

and he walked past me,

the two of us such an odd couple, separated

by 56 summers

and the weight of years, rolling up our sleeves,

his skin baby soft smooth,

mine leathery wrinkled, the buzzing gun, Coop

leaning into his timeless

art, an alchemy

in ink linking us beyond indelible tribal blood,

our eyes meeting

in the timeless smirk of young boys, pinkie swears,

blood brothers,

sliced palms pressing flesh, inked arms around

each other’s shoulders

as we walked out the glass door into a joyful

sunny afternoon

that still buzzes and buzzes so mournfully

in my skin today,

as it does every day, our sweet boy beside

this old coot wandering

down the barrier island under a Carolina blue sky,

blinding sun, sea oats

swaying, ocean sparkling, waves waist high

—SL, February 2024, Port Royal, SC