Hieroglyphics
by Elizabeth Dickhut
On your ankle sits a crude tattoo—
something done after too many drinks
and raucous laughter.
In your middle age
it’s faded, resembling the rudimentary
art of a child who has worked hard
to stay just inside the thin black lines
of this tiny universe, that rests
atop the frayed edge of your canvas shoe.
Sun, moon, lonely star twist with each shake
of the foot, spin around the fibula
endlessly. I can’t help but stare
at this modest insignia of youth
and wonder why you chose this picture
to brand yourself, forever.
Maybe out of arrogance you thought
you could carry the world with you.
Or maybe you hoped the universe
would give you strength with every step
and stride toward the thing that called you forth.
Whatever the reason, it’s something
to spin stories next to deep water,
glowing campfires, and relaxed grins.
It is, at least, your own reminder
of double dares and deep ambition.
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