Donna Vorreyer

TAGMATA/STIGAMATA

At fifteen, I lay on my back
and pummeled the flesh of my belly,
willing it flatter. I marked myself

amorphous, black and blue and secret.
Some dark thing staked a claim and
never left. Why would it? The skin

there silken, untouched by sun, pillowy
and safe. Today the weather beckons
and I lie on my back, let the sun honey

my eyelids, my shoulders. I trace circles
on my abdomen, try to summon
a new sweetness toward myself.

Instead I rub open a hole where
the dark thing has hived, ever present,
buzzing its menace beneath my navel.

I tug down my shirt, lace my hands
across the seam to hold it closed.
I feed it what it needs.