ruminants

i sewed my second stomach the first time
i ran out of money. it is a horrible feeling
to know there is an empty hole you are supposed
to pull your life from. i made the stomach 
out of plastic shopping bags 
& floss. it smelled like mint. at first, the second stomach
did not work. i tried to eat leaves like the deer.
i ended up sick. i ended up watching my antlers
fall off & turn into snakes. i thinned to
the width of a lamppost & feed my face to boys
with nothing but hands. i returned to the stomach though.
i mended the holes with socks & then with candy wrappers.
next i caught a fish & used its scales to strengthen 
the sides. the stomach came alive: a living room for that which 
could not be turned into lights. i grew up thinking 
of money almost like deer. they will come 
& they will go & you will not feel very different.
always a worry about catching them. turning them
into meat. turning their stomachs back into clouds.
the word for animals like deer is ruminant which
also means, a person who holds on. who mulls over
every detail of the past. i do not forget anything 
that had to do with fear. each time money
ran out again, i build more stomachs.
more places to harbor a few dollars or a song. 
there is a room of stomachs. some of them reek
& others are soft & bright. no one has seen them.
they are mine to keep. on my walk this morning
i find deer tracks that bisect the early spring field. 
hooves in the wet earth. i steal some of the dirt they touched.
decide not to check my bank account today
& build another stomach instead. this one maybe
from clay & dew. stitch with the early march wild onions.