Wishbones make the best broth
And these bones have been prayed over

It’s almost nearing Winter now
It is the thinning time
And my appetite turns toward potatoes and carrots and soups
And something richer turns within me

We cook them whole to preserve the magic
I crack my tooth on a bulbous end.

The bulbs we buried, many in the yard,
Will soften with the frost

The lives I’ve buried, under flesh and firelight,
Weep with me now as I return

Tears to the broth