You exploded onto me.
The incriminating ink pack secreted in the bag of stolen money.
Vibrant, wild, permanent.
You wrote your name on me with a Sharpie
and again with just your finger
and again with a desperate palm
and again with just your tongue
and again and again and again.
You exploded onto me like a Biro in a bag,
a squid in a vice,
like a renegade tattoo gun,
felt tip pens left out in the sun.
You are henna
and pickled red cabbage
and the oily yellow in Indian food,
and nude, I am a kaleidoscope of you,
and you, my you, are never truly gone.
By Hayley Sherman of India (and Ipswich)