In class
I watch your beautiful shoulders and the way your tattoo ripples across them
like a Palestinian flag in the wind
(you’ve told me what the Arabic translates to many times, but I always forget)
It’s in your grandmother’s handwriting, you tell me
When she wrote out the snippet of Wordsworth
you somehow forgot to mention it’s eventual destination
She was cruel,
you tell me
A woman who loved her beautiful children at the expense of the plain ones
(your father still talks himself down in the shower sometimes)
You shrug
She wasn’t all bad
She was beautiful herself, which counts for something
(your family doesn’t talk about the little sugeries, knife blades as upkeep)
She had a tough life
She didn’t like Jews for a good reason
I think there’s something to be said for being young and female and clever and married
There is some rage there
written on the skin of her descendants
You wear your ink link a military badge of honor
for continuing, for surviving
I hope she knows about the strength inherent in the wingspan of your arms
and your independent streak as long as the races you run
Those choices, above all else,
mark you
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