Belly

Seeing men with bellies, guys with
Rolls of fat that creased the skin on their stomachs
And jiggled when they laughed or coughed
Or sat down too fast, I reminded myself

That no matter how slow my
Metabolism got or how busy I got at work, I
Would never look like that, because I
Would never let myself look like that.

Sitting here now with my belly,
Its soft bottom hanging over the waistband
Of my shorts, its pad of fat pressing
Into the cotton of my shirt, I’m bothered

Not by the creases or the jiggling but
Rather my indifference toward them, an indifference
That grew slowly, like the belly. Years
Of scoffing at concern, admonition,

Panic, lament—assuring the mirror in a borrowed
Voice I know called my own that this
Is becoming a man: this dismissal of worry,
This succumbing to want, this letting go.