A Woman Might Say This Is What Birth Looks Like

by Rebecca Brock

Maybe the creek rising,

maybe her skirt in knots,

maybe the current a push

and pull in the same direction,

something she fights

without knowing

until her toes scrabble for purchase,

until her thighs get wet,

until staying upright isn’t a given

and she knows enough to falter.

The knee is a tender thing:

taking one, falling to, brought to, bending—

she knows the river

that push

of horizon, she knows

her own going.

Life and new life wanting

shield, wanting shelter, wanting

turn, or return. Swollen

breaths like sharp stones—

tongue torn

by her own teeth,

hurt that hurts after

for so long—

there is no cresting

just that rush,

that sink, her body

a beast

knowing shudder,

knowing heave.