by Jess Dutschmann
My insides are a clutch of bees surrounding an iron ball. I can see them move through my chest, watch my breast rise and fall with their motion. I think you knew them once while you laid your head there, when you told me my heartbeat was a buzzing, when you tasted honey from my cheek after a cat scratch. My insides, lower, are two elephants holding the skull of a bear. It is after zoos, inside me, when the ghosts of the flamingos cause pink fogs to rush through the old lion house. My insides are the dripping of a hose left on for three years, they are two elephants mourning, they are atmosphere of Venus being siphoned off into a black hole real slowly. I know this because when I run I feel weird gravities closing my windpipe, imploding me from within, and taste sweetness at the back of my throat.
Jess Dutschmann knows the way you feel when you can tell your stomach is getting larger. She does. She blogs at jessdutschmann.blogspot.com.