The Violent Birth of Stars

for Emily

Because I forgot
with the first two,
I kept a journal
on yours.

Pain has no memory,
only the memory
of a memory
infinitely receding
till it returns in the body,
sharp, intimate,
as if it had never happened before,
a new thing.

To keep ahead of it
I panted, blew, gulped,
swallowed the air
that would drive you out
between my helplessly
trembling legs.

I couldn’t outrun it.
Knees up, heels down,
sliding along the sheets
up-down, up-down and
my head side-to-side-
to-side-to-side,
my whole body
a rhythmic mantra
against my belly’s rising
into that firm ridge
an elephant could stand on,
and it would not give way.

When the time came,
I remembered from the other two
that my body did not split
groin to skull,
so it was safe to push
as you tore your way
into the air.

Later, in the recovery room
I consider getting pregnant again.
After giving birth,
everything is anticlimactic.

Karen Klein is a poet, dancer, and visual artist. Recent publications include The Drunken Boat, ScoutCambridge, the Aurorean, the anthology, Biting the Sun and forthcoming in Cape Cod Poetry Review and Pudding Magazine.

Karen performs spoken word with Tabula Rasa and Tobenfeld Mixed Media sessions and dance with Prometheus Dance Elders Ensemble, Across the Ages Dance.

A member of New England Sculptors Association, Galatea Fine Arts, and Steeple Street Poets, she divides her time between Cambridge and Mashpee, MA.