Taking off. A polished gem revisited: Yvonne Reddick

My Grandmother was a Pink-footed Goose

I

 I squint north –

clouds like the sails

of a goosewinging boat.

I blow on my fists,

feel the scrunched membrane

meshing index to thumb.

Nails press like quills,

as if each finger

could sprout a pinion

and my thumb could end

in a bastard wing.

Where are the flocks?

II

 My Mémé was bird-bone hollow, all ribstrakes and flapping bald elbows, flesh slouched over a V of sternum. Shallow breath-râles, knuckly birdleg fingers. Her English evaporated as her mind nested the tumor. The remains: ‘J’ai ces … hallucinations’ of pools and oceans, my father webbing through air, his hands in outspread sheaves of primaries.

Plume-cinder ash when we burned Mémé. The south-easterly hush-hushed it north.

I don’t usually start with a poem, but the thing is, I’ve been rereading the poems that our guest for today sent me in June…