by Katie Cappello

To stick a latexed hand inside

one of four thick-walled,

marbled stomachs, and pull out

a handful of masticate,

green and fuming, is to

wonder at the world.

How can he stand there,

open and aware, without care

for his exposed anatomy

on display at the family picnic?

And this gut, four-chambered

like our four-chambered heart—

where love, then, finds its home,

above the udder, that swinging,

vulgar pendulum?

Slide aside the strip of skin,

slip on a glove, and enter.

Raise it to your nose and smell

a stretch of field, sun-warmed,

wide, an eternity of grass

to work on slowly, the way a monk

finds balance between poles,

or a baby, newly afoot,

uses belly to stabilize.

All the time in the world, God here

underfoot, between flat teeth

grinding away, or resting

in stomach number three,

readying for the long journey

back to the earth.

by Katie Cappello

November 10, 2010 | Posted in: Fiction | Comments Closed

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