Your belly is not a busted fruit and other poems by nichole zachary

Your Belly is Not a Busted Fruit

It won’t burst when you wrap

your hands around it and squeeze

or bruise when you stuff it

into size 16 jeans; leave angry

red marks along the flesh.

Someday, someone will come

along, place one hand on it,

knock and listen close for

the hollow, the ripeness,

and their touch will be tender,

so unlike others even a melon rind

could soften into skin, ready

to be opened by eager hands.

The Pizza Man

This is the plot of the story. Imagine

Me: Virginal, blonde and ravenous.

You’ll hear the grinding of many

joints as I contort my human frame into

a circle, an emptied space. Imagine

him: dough-fingered, thick, possibly

sweating over me in a show of erotic

fiction like the videos I would watch

under childhood covers. After, he slides

his hands over my bloated stomach, asks

if I am full. With a gnawing hunger I promise

yes, plan my next empty meal: I’ll call him, order

a pizza and in a low voice, offer the exchange.

The Female Experience

“This is just womanhood” they say, rather

Then the rebirth I feel any time a man

touches me with his hands. Not a beautiful

birth but bloody, loud and I’m terrified

of the bright lights above casting out shadows

I’ve grown accustomed to. Womanhood

is a train car where you can faintly see the road

sign to the destination through wood slats.

It’s us inside who are just happy to no

longer be alone. It’s being together while headed

to the slaughter. It’s bacon juice being sucked

off the finger of a new lover. There’s nothing

I can say that hasn’t already been said.

You just haven’t been listening.

Words by Nichole Zachery | @nicspoetry

Illustrations by Augusto BM | @_augustobm