It is dark inside the belly of the beast
And warm And wet. I read a news story, or perhaps someone mentioned it over dinner, about a person who was swallowed by a whale a real life Jonah And this was recently. There is air in the belly of the beast And time. You can breathe deeply Lungs within lungs And wait for the perfect moment. A hurricane touched down the east end of my island Some weeks ago now And I wondered how long I could move along inside the eye of the hurricane Traveling at the same speed as the winds It is quiet inside the belly of the beast And dim yellow light Like when morning creeps and casts itself over the warm and purring body of my cat Asleep on the foot of my bed. I went to the London Zoo and walked along the tiger enclosure High walls and netting. They are so orange against the grey and grim skies of Camden So striped and still. Why run in a room so small? And their bellies expand with hunger for space And I know that in any other circumstance I am their meal, walking. It is empty inside the belly of the beast Pang-ed and unsatisfied, even after a five course meal and dessert. It is the Platonic cave echoing And the black hole that scientists are creating in a laboratory in Haifa And the well at the edge of the Coraline woods And the space between your bed and the wall. It is dark inside the belly of the beast And warm And wet Like a womb Like a swamp And some days I am the belly And some days I am the beast.
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