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, 

but honestly.

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.