[vc_row row_height_percent=”50″ override_padding=”yes” h_padding=”2″ top_padding=”3″ bottom_padding=”3″ back_image=”56863″ back_position=”center top” overlay_alpha=”0″ gutter_size=”3″ shift_y=”0″][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ position_vertical=”bottom” style=”dark” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ zoom_width=”0″ zoom_height=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_custom_heading heading_semantic=”h1″ text_size=”fontsize-338686″ text_height=”fontheight-179065″ text_space=”fontspace-111509″ text_font=”font-762333″ text_weight=”700″ text_color=”color-xsdn” sub_reduced=”yes” subheading=”by Kari Treese”]Birth Day[/vc_custom_heading][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space empty_h=”2″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column width=”1/1″][vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]
1
Ruby’s on the pier: cookies and cream
milkshake—cold, thick, delicious.
The long pier juts out over gray water
sloshing toward the sand. A movie
beginning soon. The waitress forgets
the check. He drags me by the hand
back down the long pier; I waddle,
belly swings to an unsung cadence.
Pull me forward—Or we’re going to
miss it. Drive home; shower.
Balloon bursts—like water breaking—
and splashes on the bedroom floor.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]
2
Doctor’s office: strip membranes in a sterile
room, that papery sheet tented at my knees.
Insert two fingers into the cervix; find space
between uterine wall and amniotic sac.
Sweep gently with fingers separating.
Remove a bloody glove. Perform
activities to hasten labor: spicy food,
hot shower, walk, stimulate nipples,
sex. Shower steam floats to the ceiling,
hands rub this distended belly, draw wet
circles on my skin. Naked gush,
mop the mess with a shower towel.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/3″][/vc_column_inner][/vc_row_inner][vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_center” gutter_size=”3″ overlay_alpha=”50″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/2″][vc_column_text]3
Put an oxygen mask on my face—
a dance of off and on. I cry when they pull him
from my body. My stomach
feels odd for days, empty and deflated.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1/2″][/vc_column_inner][/vc_row_inner][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_center” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space][vc_separator sep_color=”color-184322″ el_width=”30%”][vc_empty_space][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_right” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media_width_percent=”100″][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]Kari Treese is a writer and mathematics teacher in Southern California. She received a Bachelor’s degree in Writing Studies from University of Washington Tacoma and a Master’s degree in Education from UCLA. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Crab Fat, The Fem, and Lunch Ticket. Find her outside counting rocks or climbing them.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
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