Stomachs

My stomach tells me many things. It is the barometer for both my physical and emotional state. Right now my stomach is sad. I don't know why--I'm not sad--but my tum's unfailing sense of intuition is crying with foreboding, and I know there's something tragic waiting in the wings of my consciousness, just waiting for me to remember what it is.

My stomach lets me know loud and clear when I'm out of my comfort zone and should be nervous, when I'm in danger and should be afraid, when more than one person is looking at and I should blush, and when I'm in love and should write a poem about it. It tells me when I'm hungry and what it wants to eat, (mmm, milkshakes) when I'm overfed, (darn that milkshake) when my blood sugar is too low, (that's why I had the milkshake in the first place) and when my blood sugar is too high, (once again, the milkshake). Nausea protests when I'm too hot, and it trembles spastically when I'm too cold, even before the goosebumps get the memo. When my heart breaks or tragedy strikes my stomach takes the blow.

I picture my stomach as a hand and a bright blue ball in my midsection. Sometimes the hand bounces it, gently if I'm happy, or fanatically and violently if I'm afraid. Sometimes depression deflates it and it lies morosely and uselessly, shunning the company of food. Sometimes the hand gets nervous and shakes it like those rhythm eggs worship leaders use. Sometimes the hand slaps it away from overwhelming thoughts, only to have it bounce stressfully back. Sometimes it clenches it in its bitter fist, trying to wring the pain and despair out of it like a washcloth, when tragedy fills it until it swells as full and tight as a smashed finger.