TWO POEMS

Omphalophobia Some days, all I can thinkis that we are born into injury: an umbilical severance, our firstwound. Blinking awake to a humid fog of pain and sleeplessness. Nowonder babies cry. In yoga class, I press my stomach to the mat,an instructor urging me to find my center while I recall the girl who criedwhen I tucked a knuckle all the way inside my belly button, gut swallowingthe digit. My finger probed, as if I could feel the organs underneath. Somepeople fear knot-like navels can unravel, intestines unspooling. Sucha secret place, a whole world populated by bacteria—an early mouth, tetherto where you came from. In other ages, umbilical remnants were kept sacred,the last tie to parents, ancestors, home. I move through the asana; my middletightens, belly button flickering like an eye at a keyhole. The meditative practiceof navel-gazing, omphaloskepsis, was said to bring…