• Daniela Sylmae

Wrist Tattoo | Sylmae Poetry

Wrist Tattoo

The stillness of 2 a.m.

embraces me at noon, as the

tattoo peeks out to say hello

while I grab hibiscus tea

in a cafe, where I wished

I was a regular,

the cashier asking,

How’s that book going?

When I’m not writing, I am

a lonesome wisp with telescope eyes,

eager to find magic in morning dew,

evil in evening whispers between commuters.

She asked why “write,”

Not “writer”?

Though logically an easy label,

Might as well,

Society loves them.

I remember the intent of

the ink on me,

for me.

How can I be a writer—


Why bother with the title when I’m still here


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