My mother’s stories of her golden girlhood
retold to us over Easter,
not only memories, but also her vivid dreams
of life before migration and motherhood.
She glows like a girl in the telling,
and I remember how the bird caught in our fireplace
brushed my cheek with its feathers as it flew out -
how could something so angular and stiff,
be so utterly soft?
This soft blow of feeling,
how little my mother’s dreams must’ve counted.