The Bellybutton
Since having had that cord cut
I had to start being myself
Driven by the first breath
Breathing hard with all my might
I finally found my voice, and began to speak
I can’t expose my bellybutton to the public
The original scar, the poor and funny opening from the birth
Different from the hands
Not like the eyes, the mouth or the breasts
The lonesome and often forgotten bellybutton
Is unsocial and can’t mix well others
Ah, poor thing
To have to walk through life alone
Keeping its spirits up, pulling itself together
Making up its own mind
Always being unconscious
Where it had been originally connected and supported
I occasionally hear a faraway voice
Coming from the vague memory of the umbilical cord
That had been mercilessly snipped off
The bellybutton, that’s black-mark in the middle of the stomach
Is the sign of a human-being
It is the symbol of the cross we bear (＊)
(＊ when we, Japanese, draw the bellybutton, we put a cross in the middle of
the stomach instead of the small circle)
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