Mi Vida Loca

he shows her
his new tattoos: three dots
under his left eye

and in the crease
of his elbow, silky skin
pierced, filled,

and on his inner wrist:
a scar like a mouth
the blood like spilled ink

(the spilt milk —
palm held to the searing
cast iron pan

greased with bacon,
eggs with fluttery edges thrown
to the door)

three dots like sharp pops
from the intersection
like buttons to press

her fingers to
like tears
like little kisses