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.
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