Navel-gazing
Poetry in an off key (for Mother's Day?)
O navel, O navel, what art thou, O navel,
A flesh-rimmèd pit that can never be labeled,
Thou once were a kind of strange port in my south,
That brought in nutrition from dear mother’s mouth;
A kind of a root which brought sustenance inward,
Then chopped off by some doctor’s scalpel or slip-sword,
Or mayhap a gentle yet firm scissor snip,
To sever that link and that life-giving drip.
To be sure, ’tis traumatic being thrust from a womb,
And to have your cord cut like a thread on a loom,
But remember I don’t, for so young then was I,
Though I have been told that but little I cried
So perhaps it was not really bad as all that,
To have your world shattered—more correctly: go splat!
Interesting poem!