Every time I go thru airport security
despite their pervy x-ray glasses,
my belly gets an intimate blue-gloved rub down.
They say, I alarmed in that area
but don’t I always?
Perhaps I should submit a butcher’s diagram of all the things they
might find in my fat.
The upper left quadrant is primarily
made up of inconsequential things:
swallowed bubblegum and the hearts of my enemies.
The bottom left IS actually made up of snack cakes
suspended in feelings,
a jello mold of angst and sugar.
If you are trying to find my shame it should be there
somewhere but there are better things blocking the way.
A humble museum of loves lost and kept
occupies the upper right portion.
There is a gift shop full of stuff former lovers have left behind.
it really is a must see.
The bottom right is where all of my awesome is stored.
It looks like an illegal fireworks trailer—
if you jostle it too much there will be a loud
and beautiful explosion.
This is where I get all of that confidence
you so are perplexed by,
the very thing that likely sounded the alarm.
The fucks I give about what anyone thinks
of my terrifying body
are all stored in my belly button.
Notice how it is an empty bowl waiting to be filled.