This invasion disfigures the stomach,
insists its bulge like a bomb,
scars the disposition with wheels of hormones
in riots of spinning.
No meal will die quietly,
pushed back up the raw tubes and tunnels.
No bed will hold the night still
for a drooping bladder,
constant in tortured tug.
The force kicks blue against ribs,
leans a greedy drag on breathing.
Daily I want to change bodies
as well as my mind.
Love tumbled its roots
into my ancient darkness.
The parts and pieces grow
with secret instructions. People claim
I'm beautiful, translucent in bloated glow,
lucky to suffer a woman's hell,
to reproduce my grief bundled in smells
of soap and innocence.



�2006 by Kerri Rochelle