The Tattoo

I rise again from one more little death.
This city is not my enemy
nor any test of my good judgement.
It cannot bury me.
I have spoken to, dreamed of, and made love to
as many men as any of us have cried wasted tears
and I am a full-grown woman for it.
I was born to the South and force-fed
grits and Jesus until I could not breathe.
My lungs are full of riverwater
where I sank and drowned
and was saved over and over.
Sometimes I am martyred
Sometimes I am murdered
Sometimes I kill myself.
Saint, victim, sinner.
I have risen so many times that
every morning is another Easter.
There are lillies tatooed on my back
for all these recurrent ressurections.