Ode to My Belly

My belly proceeds me into every room,
a vanguard, announcing my prescence,
a hairy melon, the fruit of my labors,
my corpulent calling card that I wear
the way a peacock wears his tail.

My belly is territorial. He surveys
the room looking for other bellies
to fight, making sure he is mightiest.
Other bellies hide under ribs and
behind belts in fear. Stains adorn
my belley's face like warpaint. No
food escaping from a fork finds
refuge on the floor; my belly
catches them all. No table contains
him; he pushes them all away.

My belly adores to petted. People
pat him for luck, as they would
pat a statue of the Buddha in a Chinese
restaurant. They gather him in their
hands and scrunch him together the
way people hold the face of a friendly
pit-bull between their hands.
Expectant mothers in their ninth
month approach pressing
their ripeness against mine, asking
for the blessing my belly may bestow.

Lovers rest their heads on my
belly. "Panzon" they murmur. "Corazon"
they sigh and kiss him him in adoration while I read a book. My belly demands
his privacy.

My belly is a cruel taskmaster. He
leads me from the base of my spine,
his grip there is relentless, painful, and
my knrees are crumbling under
his weight. He doesn't know, and
please don't tell him, but I am
contemplating a divorce.

He will be fine. I know he will.
He will meet new people, maybe travel,
maybe buy a sports car. My
worries are for me. Like widows,
like mothers whose children are
grown, like men who've lost their
professions, I wonder...
who will I be on my own?