Mother's Wishbones, No Doubt

MOTHER'S WISHBONES, NO DOUBT All furculae with not a fragment of dried-up flesh or sinew to despoil their luster — the slew of them ranging in size from Cornish hen to turkey. Funny, I’d never noticed her extricate one, strip it clean, secrete it somewhere long-forgotten. I took possession of those bones, pried loose some of my own from birds broiled, barbequed, fried; primed each, applied gold leaf. Made more of them than Mother could’ve ever conceived — the gilt, over the generations of bones brittling whole, striking beneath the wait of wishes.