Grandmummy mumbles and babbles

in no particular time or space

asking Uncle Ray, big man

married with children, You going to school?

Everyone whispers over her head

so as not to trouble the silence

swelling there like a moon.

But I am walking with her,

back in Granddaddy’s big boots,

through chicken mess and mud

to pick ripe pomme cythère.

Back to the twisting spinning kitchen

where her Carib eyes always sang

as she rang a chicken’s neck.