Wet with love,
I roll to my side.
Middle slides—
hangs from hips
like wet laundry.
Center sagging,
dragging. Stretched
taffy—skin spread so
thin it reads like
rivers of braille.
Four stories birthed
and etched into
the soft center pillow
of my bellied gut.
I want to love this
mound of flesh
like I love you.
Wrap my legs
around its center,
squeeze thighs tight,
clench sheets, scratch
backs, feel love
rise up like heat,
like prayer, like
smokey incensed
salted sacrifices.
I want to feel this
stomach like I feel
you from the inside
out. Sweaty firm,
soft sweet, vessel
of muscle and magic,
capsule of wonder and
miracle, filling me with
life. Light radiating
forces of cellular
singularity.
I want to celebrate
this jelly eyed nucleus,
pit of the fruit,
warm and quivering
fresh from delivering.
I want to bare battle
wounds, track scars
like shooting stars,
write ballads and psalms
to the glorious, majestic
mecca of wreathed flesh
that adorns the casings
of my most powered parts.
I want to love this
mound of flesh
like I love you.
