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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.

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