I remember the day. I remember both days.
First time I hadn’t gone to the pre-natal clinic—
first two were fine, no need to go really,
she had said in her way. The call said come
quickly, as soon as you can. Fear stirred.
The u-turn run to the hospital bed found her
in tears, in almost silence. A nurse with no smile.
The baby had died, with no explanation.

The baby had died. The baby had died.
Many years later, after she had died herself,
from cancer from her Donegal family tree,
I found a picture, in the slow clearing of things,
a black-and-white ultrasound image,
a still life, heart-hidden in a drawer.