My stomach is of many minds,

it believes everything it eats.

My eschatological

stomach, a fundamentalist

of sorts, grows intent

at drawing blood from

surfaces of things:

ice-cold fingers touch its inner lining,

it lives in fear of confusion

The stomach clenched

its teeth, its nose bled all day

as I stumbled through snow

cracking theories of poetry

over its skull.

Gilded toothpicks,

sweet-sour pork

did a desperate violence

to its body.

It had to be saved, put to sleep,

but it woke early,

still restless with envy of the resplendent


I will be good to my stomach

tomorrow: listen, and believe it

for a while. The stomach

is serious and unhappy.

It wants to do something really

symbolic: it wants to be

the ultimate


– from “Journey” by Kathleen Norris

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