Saturday, January 3, 2015

No Bone

No Bone

My thumb joint's becoming a natural
marshmallow, seamed at the wrist
above a neighborhood weave,
natives jockeying for best place,

muscling into a new interior
left by a bone drilled & joysticked
out of mosaic, its grout extruded
by decades of tool use or traces

of faulty DNA. Reconstruction’s a race
not to mimic the joint but conjecture
by tissues willed to regenerate,
to stuff life in the empty space.

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful way to turn the now of an experience into instant poetry!