Maybe it’s my age, 33,

the year of Jesus’ last week in His lackluster body.

There has been a swelling in the world,

a crescendo in my spirit as right before the awful crowning.

Four times I’ve felt it in my body.

Deep vocal roars in the descending,

everything pressing down, bearing, milking.

Hands gripped in sheet-ripping strength,

my body poured. The temperature is up.

Ring of fire, it’s coming.

Take a deep breath.

Now push.