The Original Wound

The nurse says to strip to the waist,

so I sit in the clinic’s cold glare.

The paper is crinkled and placed

like a shroud on the vinyl-backed chair.

My stomach is soft, like a peach

that stayed in the bowl far too long.

There’s a secret I’m trying to reach,

a note in a half-finished song.

In my navel, a speck of red wool

is caught in the fold of the skin.

It’s a memory, heavy and full,

of the place where the world let me in.