I complained once too often about my stomach, and a friend gave me a copy of this poem. She's right, I needed a new attitude. This is for all women who happen to have stomachs. Enjoy!
My belly was never meant to be no mesa,
all high, wind flat and dry.
I've got precious eggs in here to protect.
If you see bones showing,
I'm not doing my job.
You've got to think burial mounds
or the sacred hills that roll into Lakota lands.
You've got to feel a new moon curving up cozy in bud-womb trees.
Or a beaver's dam, close-packed and shaggy,
hugging in all the Mississippi mud water
that doesn't have a date down in New Orleans.
My round, firm, boastful and bountiful belly
is every horizon that has never been sailed.
It is the flesh and blood curvature
of a thousand planets all orbiting
the brightest light they can find.
That's what heavenly bodies do.
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