Stone babies—that’s how such remembered things
are: they nestle, hibernating inside
to wake yearly with kickings and stirrings
of sorrows forgotten that still abide
in my body. Limbs intertwining link
grief upon grief unbirthed, embedded, sight
unseen. Held so long, turned gray, not flushed pink
but bloodless, this easily ignored blight
returns. Again, I see His body raised
in its last rage and Her hollow end, when
their goings weren’t gentle nor were they good—
those last agonized nights. Blasted and crazed
remembrance, whelped yearly, clawing out, then
rising up, gasping, as nothing dead should.
Rhonda R. McDonnell is not the kind of doctor that can help when an airplane passenger falls ill. She does, however, have some other uses. She lives in Arizona, where she teaches English and advises students at Scottsdale Community College. When not working, she is pursuing her MFA through the Solstice program at Pine Manor College, binge-watching sketchy TV, or hiking with dogs.