Ink

when you dream, your grandmother asks
"what do you think of tattoos?"
and her mouth twists upwards

as an echo of a smaller you
beribboned in texta
asks the same question.

when you visit, your daughter asks
"grandma, what do you think of tattoos?"
and your mother's mouth twists--

when you were 18 and rubbed raw
when you ached and arched and fought
when you were growing thorns under your skin

and you came home
a canvas,

your mother's mouth twisted,
and with a snub-nose sniff,
demanded you cover that ugly thing.

later, when your daughter's daughter
draws an awkward portrait on her wrist
you tell her,

"it's beautiful"