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