“Belly” is an underground word,

mulch spread around the garden,

music from a rusty flute,

the scraping of plastic against plastic (does this go with the rest?)

Valuable,  the stapling of paper.

“Belly” is a faulty word

Dusty and mangy,

the drinking seawater

Or lying in the tall grass, 

Shuffling on the way down a mountain.

“Belly” is a childish word

Like a boy waiting at the doctor’s office swinging his legs

Or loose pigtails slapping up and down

And pink faces,

Tiny hands grabbing  food.

“Belly” is a sweet word

Specks of honeyed cereal crumbled in the woods

Finding the way home again.

Hickory

Chestnut

Cinnamon

Warm tea and laundry baskets

Sour skittles and ukulele songs.

“Belly” will hug you in,

Rub your back,

Hold you strong