Schwank

4X2

an online poetry journal

Photo by Melissa Hotchkiss

  • The Tattooist

    by Thomas Schwank

    I saw him in time
    quivering
    one unbroken leg middle of the street
    black yellow eye stoning me
    like a child’s telescope
    fixed to one spot waiting for a soul to show up
    I thought about how I was
    gonna be late for work
    and drove around the bird
    Then I quickly made the block to move it out the street
    It had just gotten smashed
    only once
    its feathers still soft and airy
    body not that flat
    half a wing untouched
    the fingers brilliant
    plumed in the greys of dignity
    shifting and peeling in the breeze of traffic
    The face was the same except the hair
    now sticking up like a baby’s
    the head rocking slightly
    like a broken toy

    Every year when the night herons reproduce
    in the branches over this busy street
    babies maturing for months into juveniles
    laughing like a tree coming down
    some fall into the street
    and get run over hundreds and hundreds of times
    looking like a mixed media piece
    splatter of dark paint
    feathers made tar
    soundtrack of tires
    exhaust smell
    the beak and claws and bones
    visible only as lines
    a fossil made in an afternoon

    The tattooist I was telling this story to
    realized it was finally over and after a pause asked
    Did you get to work on time?
    No I said
    He nodded
    He said
    I think I understand how you’d like me to do it

Poet's Statement: I wrote this poem thinking about getting a tattoo. I don’t have any tattoos.

Bio: Thomas works as a waiter in New Orleans.