Moyamoya

The spark of a single wasp and the aura
of dozens: a heaving hypnotic nest. She’s slow
to realise, then slow to move away
but she doesn’t get stung. The park

has announced her. Shifted, it settles.
She rubs her neck and I think of the geese
on the lawn, and gavage. The rowdy geese
pollinate the lawn with feathers. The pond

is lumpless. Her blood drips slowly upwards.
She tells me the name of her disease
and what it means: Japanese for a puff
of smoke, or a wisp, she says, smoking,

but I can’t think of wisps without thinking
of dancing points of light and quickness.