Anton, age thirty-two.
Status: âliving with parentsâ.
Orthodox, but didnât go to church,
finished college, took English as his foreign language.
Worked as a tattoo artist, had a signature style,
if you can call it that.
Lots of folks from our local crowd passed through
his skilful hands and sharp needle.
When all this started, he talked a lot about
politics and history, started going to rallies,
fell out with friends.
Friends took offence, clients disappeared.
People got scared, didnât get it, left town.
You feel a person best when you touch her with a needle.
A needle stings, a needle stitches. Beneath
its metallic warmth the texture of a womanâs skin is so supple,
the bright canvas of male skinâs so stiff.
Piercing that outer shell,
you release the bodyâs velvet beads
of blood. Carve, carve out
angelsâ wings on the submissive surface of the world.
Carve, carve, tattoo artist, for our calling
is to fill this world with meaning, to fill it
with colours. Carve, tattoo artist, this
outer lining, which hides souls and diseases â
all that we live for, all that we will die for.
Someone said they shot him at a roadblock,
in the morning, a weapon in his hands, somehow by accident â
No one knew what happened.
They buried him in a mass grave (they buried them all that way).
His possessions were returned to his parents.
Nobody updated his status.
There will come a time when some bastard
will surely write heroic poems about this.
There will come a time when some other bastard
will say this isnât worth writing about.
