My belly is swollen
It throbs like the Adam’s apple of a man,
who curses the tears
if and when they fall
This belly is buoyant
It neither sinks nor rises above the ribs of safety
and like a vest,
they prevent the swell from ever crashing
My belly is uneven
It bulges and bends to the shapes of the stories of Eden,
where genitalia was blamed,
and nakedness meant violence
This belly needs to scoff gravity,
resurrect itself through the small passageways
and through the tunnels of breath, tears, and sounds
Bleeding words into the stuffy space,
which has called most things into an amnesiac existence
Will my conduits for feeling be large enough?
Will they rip and tear because the belly held too much?
Will hysteria find me, since answers are nowhere to be found?
Would it be better for me to swallow harshly?
Would it be better for me to stumble drunkenly?
I wonder from time to time if this profession asks too much of me
And, I wonder most of the time,
if I can be apart of this for the rest of my life
Because I want to be
oh God, I want to be
I know this task will push me to the edges of my grave
I know I might fall in or wobble with great fear, yet
their hearts send down their stories as Rapunzel let down her hair
and I will blindly, often, grab hold and pull myself closer
with memory of what cannot be forgotten or pushed away