—published in Section 8, Middlebury College literary magazine—

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Still Birth
 

The milk must taste flat and stale

as if scooped from an old clay vessel

from which no one wants to drink.
 

A garland of absinthe and valerian

is lying on the damp earth of the grave

of one without a name.
 

Shhh, hold your breath and listen

to this silence that the man

whispers into the ear of the woman.

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_
 

I wrote this poem many years before experiencing pregnancy loss. What I got wrong at age 20 was that our babies had names, no matter that we lost them early. And because it was early there is not a single grave for any of the five to lay garlands on. 

 

The silence is what I got right—till now that it’s broken.