Crohns I   
Anina Robb


My belly is not mine anymore.
 
At twenty-six I broke
a sweat in the elevator, counting
floors lights like an anxious child.

I never stay I told my lovers
leaving them naked on the sheets,
feigning a coolness I never knew.

The city taunted me at every turn:
noodles, whiskey, exotic fruits--
just the smells turned me sour.

My gut betrayed me and I was lost
reduced to bowing behind stoops
and feeling hollowed out.

I winded through the streets imagining
this giant grid would spit me out
somewhere I could start again.