The Bone Maker Woman sits on the bus.
The Bone Maker Woman knits scapulas.
In the next seat, a jumble of bone chips
monochrome yarn and 10 mandibulas.
A mason jar half-full of fate is close by,
lays on its side and sloshes in time with
the bumps. Bone Maker sings a lullaby.
She knows the passengers have lost their faith
Each of the riders has a nosebleed.
Bone Maker Woman finishes knitting
femurs, sprinkles the bones with fetid seeds,
and stacks them. The Bus Driver is laughing.
The Bone Maker Woman sits and she knits
sienna-stained ribcages. One rib, two,
three ribs. The Bone Maker has no limits.
Her knitting of bones will never be through.
The city bus hugs the varicose road
but the manhole covers shake and rumble
from beneath the street. Fat sewer rats explode
from the gutters. They ooze and they ramble.
The front sign on the bus reads epitaph.
Crunchy slugs creep on the backs of the seats
Riders turn into faded photographs.
Bone Maker Woman's lullaby repeats.
More war, more war, Bone Maker Woman sings--
a variation of her many songs.
Author Discusses Poems