Tattoo

By ROSANNA OH
As you undo the cuff links in your shirt,
the waiter taps me on the shoulder
and tells me that we are the last customers.
Your fish is cold.
I am waiting in the restaurant, thinking you have gone to piss—
instead, I order dessert
as you press yourself against the sink,
scratching at my name,
scouring me with water and soap.

Go ahead, check it again—
you bend to see the tattoo under your navel,
a simple black fact.
We are in Paris, not touching, not holding hands—
you complain that it is difficult to be cultured,
to be accustomed to the open avenues,
the street-side bargaining,
and now, the rawness of the food.
Look, they have shut the doors,
they have turned off the Debussy.
In the darkness, the midnight bells break across
the stirring ink of the Seine.
Come, then, let us both act like men now,
like men who have tattoos.

 

Rosanna Oh is currently an MFA candidate in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. Originally from Long Island, New York, she now lives and writes in Baltimore Maryland.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

Tattoo

Related Posts

Tripas Book Cover

Excerpt from Tripas

BRANDON SOM
One grandmother with Vicks, one with Tiger Balm, rubbed / fires of camphor & mint, old poultices, / into my chest: their palms kneading & wet with salve, / its menthols, to strip the chaff & rattle in a night wheeze. Can you / hear their lullabies?

Blue cover of There is Still Singing in the Afterlife

Four Poems by JinJin Xu

JINJIN XU
my mother, my father. / Her skinny blue wrists, his ear caressing a cigarette. In the beginning, / it is already too late, but there is hunger & no time / to waste. All they need are six hands, three mouths, a clockwork / yearning for locks of their own, windows square & fresh.

black and white photo of a slim man's body, arm outstretched from the bbody

LitFest 2025 Excerpts: Video Poems by Paisley Rekdal

PAISLEY REKDAL
On the seventh day / of the seventh month, magpies / bridge in a cluster of black and white // the Sky King crosses to meet his Queen, time tracked / by the close-knit wheeling / of stars. I watch. You come // to me tonight, drunk on wine / and cards, nails ridged black / with opium