Katrina Kaye

I am lying still and holding my belly in my hands. I am trying to hold myself together by holding myself. I am trying to catch myself before I fall over and my insides fall to the ground. I hold myself together by holding myself.

My belly is soft and round, swollen with indecision and promises yet to be fulfilled. I am unable to feel the warmth I know is inside me. I am unable to touch, but I can hold, so I hold.

I hold myself together with hands that are too swollen to grasp, knotted with arthritis, useless to do anything but hold. My breath comes in long, drawn movements. No sudden changes. There is no storm over this ocean, only the roll of steady wave.

It would be so easy for the tide to pull me apart. To separate limbs, spread fingers, pluck each hair from body, loosen teeth from gum line. The water takes not only breath, but strength. But I can still touch my hand to belly. I can still hold myself. I can still hold myself together. I can still hold myself.

“Belly” is previously published in Shadowplay (2025).