A Meal for Stillborn Maternal Love 

I am not sure where between conception and birth
did my mother’s love for my sister and I die
but when we were brought into this earth, shivering
and scared, we gripped the knowledge in our tiny
hands that something else had perished in exchange
for our survival.

We buried the fragile corpse in the tomato garden
of our childhood, plucked the fruit from the vines,
crushed the soft heads and made marinara sauce
and we feasted upon what we grew ourselves,
even though the meal left us with acid reflux,
bitter and burning.

Every spring, we watch our bountiful garden from
the window, and see small fingers become un-
earthed in the soft wet ground by afternoon rain
showers, and in the distance, they create the illusion
of wiggling like worms, trying to find a grip on the
clay of the earth.

Like a call and response in prayer, we grab our hoes
to yank the small body from the ground, still intact,
a threat of what could have been and bury it
deeper than before.

***

Jennifer Thal is twenty-six-year old Philadelphian transplant in Chicago pursuing a doctorate in clinical psychology. Her work has appeared on The Esthetic Apostle, Typishly, and Haunted Waters Press. She enjoys reading at open mic nights, advocating for body acceptance and positivity, and empowering her readers through her writing.