On labor: 14 (times 2) (breathe in / out / again) ways to turn on the charm (clean the farm) 

by Jen Schneider

 

1.     a thin, gold chain, weighted of metal & purchased on a sunday funday whim at a sandy dandy beach souvenir shop (the kind with hermit crabs in cages and three for ten Ts, wholesome sundries too) links an ankle swollen of age (borderline rage) and fluid. the ankle & its attached soul in a delicate position. delicate discussions off limits. 

2.     a solitary charm, an ocean blue and cranberry red enamel dove, brushes & lingers against the pale bone. the bone not unlike a mountain atop a limb lost in labor. angles both acute & obtuse everywhere.  

3.     an orchestra of charms at war with gravity (& in tune with time) plays low notes while voices climb higher. new elevations reached. new thresholds breached. 

4.     a violet heart brushes a white arrow. tiny cupids toil. double-sided, all sides on edge. a green tortoise hugs a brown owl. opposites attract, always attracted. protracted distractions of faux gold & air-stained tarnish everywhere. 

5.     collected at sunday funday fleas & monday markets. time on stand still. still more work to be done. late night discos & pre-dawn vegetable stands. each charm a milestone. each milestone a marker. of tradition, extended labor, & turnips turned timekeepers. ripe. riper. ready to eat. almost there.

6.     some stands one mile south. others thirty miles north. each additional marker simultaneously miraculous & numbing. home both an anchor & a weight. 

7.     minds travel 10 then 20 then 30 miles. more meters. i am of/in/on labor. a teacher. a friend. a cousin. both responsive to others & responsible for others. dust particles of identity lift and swirl, then dissipate in the not insignificant pockets of air between then and now.  

8.     i no longer know who i am. of whom my heart beats. my belly bloats. then bleats. more beeps. i sweat. i crave sleep.  

9.     labor persists. the laundry machine waits. awaits, too. full of suds and unsorted fabric. the world ready to claim a new blue. perhaps pink. pens and check boxes take form.

10.  all forms fade. are you with us? don’t look right. don’t look left. eyes on me.

11.  green eyes focus on pools of aqua. i can’t breathe. i’m in too deep. the no end. i forget how to swim.

12.  push. 1. 2. 3. push. 1. 2. 3. inhale. count. 1. 2. 3. exhale. push.

13.  a small blue velvet box sits on the nearby linoleum bed tray. next to the doctor’s needles.

14.  long needles. long waits. time always linear. new dates. for the rest of the players. mostly audience. all eyes on the protagonist. all the world (the bed) a stage (rage still brewing).

15.  the animals rage with hunger. ice chips on the menu. kitchen closed. eggs un (over) boiled / un (over) laid until morning.

16.  guttural moos, neighs, and bleeps anew. from deep within the belly that continues to rise.

17.  summer heat rises. bands of sweat. beads of soiled stew. stains proliferate.

18.  rubbage runs rampant. garbage tangoes with rubbish as canned peaches turn sour. worry simmers in pots without lids & lads without (s)pots.

19.  concerns for quacks. am I ready. not yet. i am ready. or not. Push. 1. 2. 3. Push. 1. 2. 3.

20.  labor lingers. labor laughs. unfamiliar tunes. too long to remember. too long to forget.

21.  crave memory. cravings blank. collect goldfish. reinvent (and reinvest) in 10 second increments. time always linear.

22.  i’m ready. or not. push. inhale. count. court. voices rise. stomachs fall. 1. 2. 3. push.

23.  farm hands wake early. fields fester. vehicle pumps leak. ladders bladders, too.

24.  eyes widen. seas part. the rooster rises early. come rain. come shine.

25.  labor lingers, then skin simmers. voice boxes cackle while palms crackle. ice chips clink.

26.  chains unlock. eyes lock anew. all silhouettes on. new life charms. in shades of baby blue. shades up. sun (then son) enters. storm greeters, too. welcome to the farm (welcome to my arms). a thin, gold frame, weighted of checklist medals and birthed on a sunday now fun day whim on a fourth-floor room in an out of body class swollen of age (borderline rage) & fluid. ankles & souls in delicate positions. delicate discussions without limits. 

27.  the room an orchestra of soprano and alto notes. notes of doctors and nurses, too. thin paper band on baby’s chubby ankle. toes of new life (& skin stretched of strife) wriggle.

28.  ready. only ready.  

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Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of Invisible Ink (Toho Pub), On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility (forthcoming, Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups (forthcoming Atmosphere Press).