PASSING GAS

Maybe the Big Bang

was just one epic fart,

a cosmic flatulence, of sorts.

I have gas, but mine is not  

of mythic proportions, 

thank god. At least 

that’s what I tell myself.

But maybe it is.

Maybe those trapped 

bubbles inside my belly

are nothing more than 

a deep desire for expansion,

like hydrogen and helium

had at the beginning of Time,

that gave rise to 

the stars and the planets,

the suns and the moons,

the constellations and the galaxies, 

all inside  

an expanding space,

a boundless belly.

Maybe all my bloating

is an intelligence

all its own,

roiling for the chance to join

with a source and force

greater than the body

and bubble my narrow being 

can offer. I am ready 

for that day to come,

for my own Big Bang moment,

a release of such a magnitude

that everything I carry inside me

that might be fuming or swirling 

finds its way free

and in that singularity

becomes lighter and brighter

than it’s ever been, 

and oh what a glorious 

heartburn that’ll be.