Tattoo

Accept this final message
written in black ink on my ankle,
over the same space where a sand fly
bit me last year. It didn’t hurt
that much—expectation
was more painful, atrocious.
It’s Arabic, lacey, still soaked
with solar heat, the same
that scorched my skin
when I, without suspecting
you existed—yet I knew your eyes
in many a dream—visited Oman,
Nizwa, Muscat, bright
heatherless Scottish hills,
only no rain, no clouds in sight.
If it can’t be love, let it be
friendship.          Habib.          A word.
But on my skin, permanent
symbol, engraved—
friend warrior lover miracle perdition.
It’s a gift.