There is a certain kind of loneliness that makes me
homesick for the flow of my son inside me. That dance.
Fish-bowl belly. Great ball-belly, watermellon-womb,
belly-balloon and belly-planet. I remember what it was to walk,
magnetic-belly tugging forever towards the center of the Earth,
and behind Belly, without ever reaching her/him, myself.
I remember: pleasure. Sunny belly. Anointed abdomen,
rubbed with cacao oil. Fresh belly. Belly resting at last, upon
the exact combination of pillows and cushions. Floating womb
in the summer, inside a hotel pool, in the middle of the desert.
Belly-dreams. Oceans, lakes, rivers, grandparents
and great grandparents, whole family trees with their roots
under water. Ships. Faces, hands, eyes, crosses.
Blood, twice more blood than before
Veins deformed that carry a certain time
crowding painfully here, in the right calf,
or there, in the sole of the left foot.
Sound womb. With life carrying on outside: belly intact.
Peaceful stomach, going up and down the
airplanes of fear, of good-bye, of fragility. Womb with wall.
Breasts. The milk of human kindness in the making.
Big, heavy, hot, sensitive. Life preparing life´s nourishment.
Pigment---the sign. Dark circles inside light circles.
A line beyond science, moving through the entire curvature,
from the navel to the pubis.
Ritualistic belly. Away from all eclipses.
Under the showers of stars.
Belly inside the temple: a bellyful of incense.
White womb, blue womb. Infinite belly. Belly at the center.
Heart within the heart within the heart within the heart.
Aquatic abdomen submerged in the thick oils of existence.
Blessed belly. A parenthesis. A return. A truce.
Never shall you be this far away from death while on this Earth.
Belly too, shall pass.
-Margarita Martínez Duarte