in my belly are indigestible decades,
hesitations, secrets conflated to stir up stories
that bloat the belly, big as in pregnant with mumbles,
I’m she who’s colossal and cumbersome, filling fast
and you see how the clothes leave marks,
like where rope was had it been, rather where tight ill-fitting
damp dark mildewed fabric was, especially
the throat neck, the quick, the skin-fucking-tight.
I can only sit still, and still there is so much restless legs
that it is my endless mouth consuming,
chewing, drawing in entire landscapes, bordered countries
stuck in constancy, a bog reeked of tradition,
some bile of values spat like seeds, bones, buckshot.
I refuse to move like continents, no,
see my plates are plentiful
just not tectonic, you see I walk
earthquakes into existence.
this is my body, it is weather,
it is known for this mouth,
these slow-blink welling eyes
and hey, as storms piss open
on the upturned faces,
so do they.
I wept oil yesterday, grease from traps,
black tar like deep in the earth oil, oil from what
was wrung out the body of my matriarch,
that oil she said lit fires that never died.