"The bread of her waist, a loaf
we would knead with 8 year old palms
sweaty from play. My brother and I marveled at the ridges and grooves. How they would summit at her navel.
How her belly looked like a walnut. How we were once seeds that resided inside. We giggled whenever she would recline on the couch,
lift her shirt, unbutton her pants, let her belly spread like cake batter in a pan. It was as much a treat as licking the sweet from electric mixers on birthdays. The undulating of my mother’s belly was not a shame she hid from her children. She knew we came from this. Seemed grateful." -Sonya Renee Taylor