By Jennifer Warren

Rolling up my shirt, I search for the marks
you'll leave behind,
tattered cobwebs.

My navel has stretched
into a cavernous hole,
a cubby you'll later tuck Cheetos
and pennies in while I sleep.

I push my skin together,
trying to close the gap.
I restore my small slit
of a belly button. A temporary fix.
You kick, protesting from the inside out.

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