Push they said,
holding your limbs,
spread you apart.
So much joy they took
in the pain, the women
bore down on you.
Of their own labours
they spoke, alternately
sweetened and bullied.
Turning hour after hour
the muscling wheel
rode through you.
And he saw you now
he’d think twice.
But they envied this.
Strangely they moved
in the old dance,
feeding up gossip.
They did what they must.
You suffered, love,
but to wag tongues.
At the last you saw
your own body’s shafts
and the driving muscle
between them print out
its track, the child
leapt to their hands
and the wheel rolled
out of you, pushing
the small life from you.