My very imperfect sonnet. I’ve always hated writing sonnets. Group project — any suggestions for fixes? Anyone? Anyone? đŸ™‚ I will write a way better poem about this topic at some point, released from the tyranny of form.

The day we were to get tattoos, the town
shook, bucked, and rattled from an earthquake.
My husband said Fells Point buildings fell down,
hoping fear might make us decide to flake.
Not to be deterred, my sister and I
kept with the plan for our inky tributes
to our lost brother. Because he did die
so young, we chose to get our family roots
etched onto our skin. Always there now
when we reach our arms, turn our painted wrists
over, our hearts remember exactly how
they should feel if they were still whole. We kissed
our Doug goodbye in June. Stood there shaken.
Our innocence, security, taken.

© Julie Ayers
August 2011


About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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