On Being 34

when I lie flat on my back
I tend to put my hand on my belly
sort of move it around and search
for those pelvic bones of pre-1996
before I ballooned in maternal
awe and willed my skin to accommodate

in my search there is this sense
nothing pre-1996 was of any importance
not even my young bones
that were once humped by
that one girl in college, the dark
one with eyes like sage and a voice
like honey, amber and slow
as she whispered that she couldn’t
help it, she just couldn’t help it