You sketch my torso from every angle,
shading my belly from hipbone to hipbone
then kissing me there, the way a goldfish
having swum round a morsel of fish-food
moves in, fishy-mouthed, and latches on.
At break, you feed my belly titbits -
tortilla chips as I’m tying my wrap,
olives in oil while we wait for the kettle,
excusing your fingers, your visceral fingers
parting my lips, me licking the oil off.
I bet you pat all your models’ bellies and
flatter us with words - muscle tone, definition,
poise, elegance, gazelle - and say don’t be daft
you’re a long way from being fat, and
such a pretty skinny belly, so kissable.