
Project Fifty-Five / Mingo County
Borborygmus
That sound that rumbles in your stomach when the cabinets are bare, the next check still days — but might as well be months — away:
it’s not: the result of an emptied belly, not the squeezing and churning of an abdomen void of the nutrients necessary for our species to survive;
no;
it’s not: the hollow sound of cup after cup of water, flowing over your tongue, down your throat, as you try to tame the raging tempest, try to nourish the embedded beast, stuffing it full of whatever distraction that will, if only for a few moments, free you from those nagging pangs;
no, no; that sound,
it’s: the sweet echo of a distant ocean, waters you’ve never seen, come to greet you on a new and bright morn, the still-risen moon pulling the tide to shore;
it’s: the thundering roar of a mile-high waterfall, crystal water cascading over smooth rock, water you can dip your toe in, water you can feel flowing inside you;
it’s: the dulcet voice of your mother, her face puffed in telltale red, watered eyes looking through you, that considerate smile — forced, but ever present — reminding you that
someday
this too shall pass.
This poem is part of Project Fifty-Five, a personal poetic journey through West Virginia’s fifty-five counties. More from this series: Here.

