Under duress, she is quick quck with her response
to the question about her recipe tattoos. Shy even,
the woman of blue skin, now settled into forty-five,
those scripts, those salves, soups, and soap.
Each recipe in a fine scripted font, sized and chosen
to contrast with the other recipes printed on her body.
"After the first it was Benedict Arnold not to design
another. Like to not have that recipe marked for my life
was a betrayal of our family's country, our way
of living and marking seasons, rich and poor."
There's a recipe for root smash salve for burns,
silverpaste of mussle and clam for wedding crackers,
chocolate soup for weary nights, onion and apple
tea for colds. Her heel is rounded with a purple garlic
ball, her shoulders capped with rounds of cheese.
Without her ink she is unnoticed. Just another wife
in the grocery ailse. Without her ink she is unmade,
another memory slipped under the wire and gone.