Alex Gallo-Brown

Variations on Labor

Variations on Labor

During our weekly childbirth class

the peppy medical professional tells us

today we are going to be learning about labor

and the variations of discomfort

my wife

will soon experience—

the first part spent at home watching

Netflix, the professional

suggests—

(it is important

for the partner

to remain calm)—

before the transport

to the hospital—

the submission

to triage—

the placement

of the monitor

around the patient’s waist—

(it is important

for the partner

to remain calm)—

before the final push—

contractions

intensifying—

effaced cervix

widening—

the head

a crown—

the vulva

a valve

(it is important

for the partner

to remain calm)—

While the bleary-eyed professional

prattles on

the phrase variations of labor rises

in blue letters

on the big screen,

bringing to mind not

future selfless support

but past

personal exertion

not the voluntary

worshipful act

but mandatory

grudging depletion—

so much of the time

we have been given

surrendered to my job

or hers,

so many of the years spent

together devoted to

other people’s needs.

I think of Jody

the woman with cerebral palsy

who I bathed and fed and gave

medicine to

with the attention

normally reserved

for a family member

towards whom one feels

an immeasurable debt—

who thudded tennis balls

against the walls

in a giddy fervor

of delight—

who could comprehend the contempt

felt by the other caregivers

for the people

left in their charge—

who could understand the love

that can pass between strangers

who find themselves confined

to a room—

While the professional presses on,

I sense my wife tensed

beside me as she takes

comprehensive notes

and am reminded

not of the woman

who I watched grow

sure-footed and child-ready

over the past nine years

but the little girl

who wore glasses

coiled all the way

around her ears—

who moved from classroom

to playground and back again

carrying an aura

that deserved attention

beyond what a little boy

could give—

who worked hard

to become the woman

who sustains

our child.

​

​

​

I Was a Worker Once

I was a worker once.

Lent my labor to

the appetites of mass.

Like a caged animal,

my master said,

beautiful, self-contained.

Only once was I asked to sacrifice

the fingers of my left hand,

which I gave willingly

and mostly without regret.

I could follow

my master's reasoning.

I was sympathetic

to her plight.

The company had

its own hunger.

We would all be asked

to give.

And what of the other workers?

Where did they figure in?

I kept my gaze

on the task

in front of me.

I waited

for my shift

to end.

_______________________________________________________

Questions for the author:

​

What are 2 - 3 books (regardless of genre) that you've read over the last year or less that really blew your hair back?  

White Flights: Race, Fiction, and the American Imagination by Jess Row, Coal Mountain Elementary by Mark Nowak, and Invisible People by Alex Tizon



Who is someone you admire who does work that you feel really benefits your “local” community, and what kind of work is it that they do?

Kshama Sawant, our socialist city council person. Her movement

is the only thing keeping Seattle a not entirely unlivable place.



What advice would you give a previous boss?

Consolidate this, motherfucker!