I read poetry aloud to Czarina while the tattoo artist carves an image of The Raven on her back. Now I am reading Forrest Gander’s English translation of the Spanish poem Firefly Under the Tongue. She listens to me tang fissure pleasure the pulse. My voice keeps her from mossing ancient with mystic ardor. When the artist warns us that bruising may occur, we both become paralyzed from the soul down. Hours later, a lone Chinese grammarian swags in wearing her ecstatic make-up. A dark hiss shifts the lily breaks the rock. Cloak courtesans claw Kabbalah cupcakes. Czarina’s inked so indelibly deep into the dermis that the wings transform into real Raven’s wings. She off and flights skywise. What’s left for me to do but press and twist my foot on the book, as if I am smothering a cigarette?