Why Women Have Tattoos "A flower," she said. "It hurt a lot, but I'd wanted one for twenty years." I didn't think much about it, then. We were talking about my poetry. But later I began to wonder-- Why? Which flower? Where? Had she an image in mind, long-honed, one particular blossom, or did she shop the parlor wall and pick from what was there? "There was a new relationship... changes," she had hinted. A lover's gift, perhaps. Man? Woman? Did they choose together, or was it a surprise?-- placed to be seen when she first undressed, or an even subtler surprise, placed to be discovered in exploration. Or had she just torn free and sought to make the change indelible?-- a permanent string-around-the-finger to remind her of the flavor of damage, to keep fresh the resolution: Yes, again; but never again like that. Or was it a message from herself to herself?--that nothing lasts without the will to make it last, that what one would keep must be kept close to the bone, always at hand and in mind. I could ask to see for myself, but that would change everything. What would I have wondered instead, had she never mentioned it? Would I have thought of her at all? I still wonder. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved. Why Women Have Tattoos answers a question that has always needed a better response than "too much tequila." As many poems do, this one sprang from another, Tattoo Parlor Dream, which I had sent to a more accomplished poet with the aim of soliciting free advice and sympathetic comments. The graphic is based on a pencil drawing by Alphose Mucha. The resemblance to the original is much less than intended. But then, I bet Mucha's attempts at poetry would be equally rough.