Remember when you were little? it asks.
But of course you don't.

Belly button. A hole-punch in the stomach,
a knot of dough. The only thing left of your
infancy. Everything else unrecognizable. The
fingers elongated, the cheeks thinned and
shins narrowed. But the bellybutton stays the
same.

It asks to be ignored. You can't get a cramp
there, nor an itch; you can't get punched in
the bellybutton. How often do you think of
it? Once a week? Once a month? Does your
hand ever wander down there?


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