She Is Four Months Old

And the last of the linea negra
buried in my navel fades away.
My breasts no longer crouch
on my abdomen, stick to the skin below.
Months of ever-thickening locks
fall from my scalp in chunks, make
little hair nests in the drain.

And when reading magazines
in the longest line at Safeway
just for those few extra minutes
of nothing, or standing
at the Chevron — careful not to get it
on my hands —

it hits me. All eyes are not
on my middle, gawking
at the future within my naked self,
the oldest evidence of sex. I am no one
again to those x-ray eyes —
just tits and ass
buying tampons, pumping gas.

And to the one who folds
into my center, who orbits faster out
every second, I am just
molecules and atoms,
just the flaming sun, just the source
of gravity.