Poetry by Elsa Asher
Giving birth to death
early spring, a bridge built between us
in my saturated interior, a minuscule spinal cord
heartbeat, the beginnings of hands
in a writing workshop on west 13th street
something spilled out of me
in the bathroom i saw blood and cried
the next morning at home, a fist of cells
divided and multiplied, a folded unripe plum
bundled and split, slipped out of me.
midsummer, engulfed in nausea not daring to hope.
autumn, at the clinic on west 17th street
a blood test confirmed i was already nine weeks
i returned to my classes, and tried to work out a plan
we talked about moving upstate, or home to seattle
i dreamed of giving birth with the midwife
who caught me when i was born.
winter, at the end of my second trimester
i slept on a plane from los angeles, and two days later
i couldn’t remember when i had last felt the baby move
quickening; death inside my living body
a shudder when blood crossed the placenta
met resistance, turned back at the umbilical cord
shunted away from what was no longer alive
at the ultrasound there was no heartbeat
the sound of no sound louder than silence
as i gave birth, i turned and shook, i did not care
who heard me howling, i pushed her maroon body
soft and still between my legs i reached for her
long thin arms and legs, little hands and feet
her tiny fingernails, her small pursed lips
i held her to my chest as everything broke open.
uncover my heart
the first time i felt my breasts was in fifth grade
during morning exercise in the assembly hall
as i crawled across the floor on my belly
i realized my chest felt sore.
i wore big sweatshirts two sports bras
rolled my shoulders forward
i was sexualized and visible and afraid
i asked my parents for surgery to make my chest flat
they told me to wait until after i hit puberty.
the first time i had sex i didn’t want to take off my bra
when she went down on me i felt numb
i wanted to explode and for her to catch all the pieces
i wanted to be broken open and held whole.
during pregnancy my breasts grew larger
two days after i gave birth to my stillborn baby
i stood in the shower my breasts swollen
with milk for a baby who was not alive
an unspeakable fury.
i had breast reduction surgery
in my first semester of graduate school
in my second year of somatics training
i felt more grounded and centered.
i still wanted my chest to be flat
i wondered if the desire was a trauma coping strategy
did my breasts remind me
of my own experience nursing as a newborn?
so much flowed through that milk.
i thought i needed to understand the answer
to the question but i didn’t i realized
not everyone who had breasts wanted to cut them off
this helped me to remember that my desire was something.
on winter solstice i had top surgery
i felt my flat chest with the palms of my hands
gender euphoria! my ribcage the front surface of my body
like a revelation exposed in the best way
i wanted to uncover my heart.
