The latest blog from the amazing John Foggin!
My Grandmother was a Pink-footed Goose
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?
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…
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