“tattoo” by gregg shapiro my father won’t talk about the numbers 3-7-8-2-5 between the wrist and elbow blue as blood on his left forearm instead, he spreads himself over me spilling his protection, like acid, until it burns i wear him like a cloak, sweat under the weight there were stories in the lines on his face the nervous blue flash in his eyes his bone-crushing hugs i am drowning in his silence trying to stay afloat on curiosity questions choke me and i swallow hard we don’t breathe the same air speak the same language live in the same universe we are continents, worlds apart i am sorry my life has remained unscathed his scars still bleed, his bruises don’t fade if i could trade places with him i would pad the rest of his days wrap him in gauze and velvet absorb the shocks and treat his wounds i would scru