Navigating by Lisa Romano Licht

Navigating

You only show me your tattoos when they’re a done deal. Peel back your shirt, laugh nervously for the reveal. Know my surprise and disappointment will burst like a match-tossed flame. “Mom, are you mad?” you mouth. I shake my head no. A strange emotion rises in me for you, barely in your 20s, and it, so permanent. Potential future of hovering regrets. This one fills your upper arm. I cringe at its geometric spread, wonder how easily it can be hidden. You explain its design, tracing your birth constellation, Libra. Each of its five points bloom with the birth flowers of our family: us, your father, older sister and childhood dog. Morning Glory. Two Marigolds. Poppy. Lily of the Valley. Days later, the flame flickers, smolders. My mind flashes back to years ago when you, a sad girl, no ink, briefly drew hurting marks on that same skin. Pain we shared. Now I see you grown strong-muscled, clear-eyed, choosing a canvas that charts your universe of love instead. Stars fixed and aligned; blossoms awake in perpetuity. Show me your arm again.

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Lisa Romano Licht’s poetry and other work has appeared in The Westchester Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, San Pedro River Review, Blue Heron Review, Steam Ticket, Mom Egg Review, Ovanque Siamo and elsewhere, and was selected for The Year’s Best Dog Stories and Nothing Divine Dies, both anthologies. She holds a Masters in Writing from Manhattanville College and lives in Rockland County, NY. Find her on X:@LRLwrites