Ode to Will Amato’s Belly

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 O

 the spine
tender neck to base of back
kyphotic   curved and undulated
as a question finds it punctuation mark.

The small pillow of your middle
mounded above your pelvis

inhabited by all the exhales denied
churning and digesting countless cups
of coffee.
Cigarettes inhaled.
Balzac redux.

This place you never left
vulnerable for me to lay my head
upon if no closeness is allowed.
Therefore to put one’s tongue
in navel
discouraged.

If my heart entered your
Belly then you would have
to know me,
accept my quirky meandering
laugh at my redeemable
Infatuation
feign curiosity and court me.
Ventilated.
With intention.

I see only food entering this other world
this universe of ache and enzyme.

Was there a vertical line of hair?
  A column of dark offering?
Might I trace my finger along it?

Carefully
like reading a map.