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Mama Mada
Birdsmith
by Jud i Sutherland
I had to make a false leg for the toucan
from a strong brass spring, to take the shock of landing,
the first and fourth toes turned backwards for grip.
I saw from the way the bird regarded me, beak cocked
to one side, that it was grateful. My next project
a throat-pouch for a pelican, from fine ostrich leather
and a purse-clasp, fixed with tiny rivets
to the bird’s smooth bill. My confidence grew;
I fashioned plumage for a peacock’s tail
from fine embroidery silks and spun gold thread,
fanning out brilliant shields of turquoise.
I made an eye for the barn owl; a lacquered bead
trapped in a sphere of blown glass; a fly-by-wire system
for a flock of avocets; how they dipped and lunged
in unison at my command.
When he comes home from school, my son
perches on a workshop stool, and leans his elbows
on my bench, among crusted paint,
pots of glue and pages of gold leaf, and watches
as I work. I can make him fly. I’ve studied
flight feathers – the remiges – for thrust and lift,
the primaries, secondaries, tertials. I’ve collected
everything necessary; a sackful of gull feathers
pewter, white and black; a harness
of buckled leather straps; a slab of wax.
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