Julia Lisella
THE BELLY
Try not to look down as you climb him
at the plushy quality of the flesh
of the absence of muscle
at the curves and folds like some mass
of not yet kneaded dough.
Think torso, think ribcage, think
navel to the wall of your back.
Don’t breathe in like that when you
climb him.
Try not to count the folds
as you gyrate joyfully – look
at him – he’s
not looking down either – he’s
happy at his sight line – the still
firm breasts, the only midlife
miracle of your body.
Try to recall it has always been
like your mother’s belly
round and soft
even when you biked
centennials. No surprises here. The belly
is not lofty - it has been
asked a lot of these past 58 years.
It moans a little after restaurant dinners,
it argues with your size 8 jeans. It’s been
cramped in and cramped up
with adjacent
vibrations of menses and labor,
a non-union worker who must always
show up.
It’s not the labor you’re thinking of though.
Don’t look down. Gravity pulling it
one way, love pulling it another.
Look at the droplets of sweat
in each unfolding crease
and when you roll away from him,
lay your back down,
watch the floppy skin stretch,
and the sweet salt -
the way the skin eats it,
the funny way belly
balloons and flattens.
Let the walls go,
let your arm swing across
his gray-haired chest.