Tattoo

Before he breaks the skin, he asks
if this is my first.
Much of my body exposed,
I wonder how he
doesn’t know the answer;
how he could suspect
that I have secreted another?

We choose a sentimental space
between spine and shoulder-blade,
above my heart and hidden
from the casual observer.

When he begins
I know that I am bleeding,
and I wonder how he fights it—
the urge
to bend over and lick my skin,
to stop the flow,
to quell the pain.