Trevor West Knapp

We speak of the pain of childbirth, referring, of course, to the mother, but what is pain to the mother, the one through whose body the course unwinds? She understands already what kind of world she must return to, how it daily hones its many edges against human skin, unlike the child whose untried limbs inch toward it, pressing now so firmly against her he feels for the first time the pinch of bone against bone and is seared by the friction. Isn't he the one on whom the real burden falls, the one to whom resilience means nothing yet? His tender skin like a small measure of cloth unfolding before the blade under which he will, for a lifetime, bruise and heal: Crush of the long descent, grip of the steadying hands, brush of breath against cheek, even the constant barrage of the microscopic, the tiny plink-plink of the dust motes knocking against him before custom makes him numb to it. No wonder the startled mouth cries out, each pore suddenly hungry in the withering, nourishing light.