Bones

When a bone is taken out, we grieve. 
Nothing belongs in a casket.
Or as medical waste.  
Where do you bury something that has marrow but no eyes?
That bone grew roots. 
Nothing belongs. 
The amputation. 
It feels like I still have an arm. 
Bones don’t die easily. 
They talk to their old owners. 
Get treated like medical waste. 
When a bone is taken out, the bone grieves.  
Sentience.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

Poem

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Alex Avatar
August 31, 2026 at 12:44 AM
Your poem captures the psychological trauma of amputation and phantom limb syndrome with a raw, surrealist edge. Great work!
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