Liz Whiteacre

PAIN PUSHES

Pain holds my other hand,
and before I close my eyes,
I see Kevin through the oxygen mask
that he gentles to my cheeks.
His hand cradles my knee in air.
The doctor's latexed palm presses my inner thigh
when she guides the needle holding local anesthetic.
A nurse soothes my forearm,
ready to sprint for the next thing needed.
Still Pain stays steady, knows after all these years
to whisper. Don't push. I hear
contractions rock me.
Pain pricks my spine to punctuate the doctor's warning,
helping, like Kevin, like the nurse,
like the doctor cutting me.
I forget the husha-husha-he-he.
Pain elbows my ribs, makes my breath pop.
Breathe .
Don't push . We negotiate, Pain and I,
like we might over the remote,
who's running back to the store for the eggs,
whether the garden can go another week without weeding
—no, like we might over the best path to Texas
where we'll take her this Christmas.
Soon.
Pain teaches me patience—that my body can unfold,
muscles bloom, nerves pulse neon,
in these moments when I ask it not to push and it doesn't
and when I ask it to push and it brings forth new life.

Liz Whiteacre is an Assistant Professor of English at Ball State University. She was awarded an Inglis House Poetry Award in 2010 and the Vesle Fenstermaker Poetry Prize for emerging poets from Indiana University in 2008. Her work has appeared in Disabled World, The Prairie Light Review, Disability Studies Quarterly, and The Survivor Chronicles. Her debut book of poetry Hit the Ground was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013.