There is a stone for whetting
here in the open palm of my belly.
I am always knife sharp hungry.
Peel myself from the navel,
with teeth for hands and surgical precision.
I undress myself, not the way that he likes,
The pulp of me
gets stuck in your teeth,
mango seed stringy and sour gin bitter.
I am not a meal that would fill anyone up,
but here always is the whetting stone,
wicked and sunken and waiting.