Fragment of a poem by Tony Hoagland
from What Narcissism Means To Me. © Graywolf Press, 2003.
This year it seems like everyone is getting tattoos --
sharks and Chinese characters,
hummingbirds and musical notes --
but the tattoo I would like to get
is of a fist and a rose.
But I can't tell how they will fit together on my shoulder:
if the rose is inside the fist, it will be crushed or hidden;
if the fist is closed, -- as a fist by definition is, --
it cannot reach out and touch the rose.
Yet the only tattoo I want
is of a fist and rose, together.
Fist, that helps you survive.
Rose, without which
you have no reason to.
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