wishbone
baby snaps a twig in half
unevenly cleaving two limbs
but before the operation is committed
she whittles them down to the bone
the two thighs of life
sprung from the soil
she lops off the leaves
like her mother wields razors
she peels away the skin
with a knife, gentle, no salve of amnesia
she trims off the meat
fed with nutrients over the years, now gone
the process takes several years
glossed and galvanized by silence
baby isn't baby anymore,
when she's got a knife in her fingers,
scraping onion skins for dinner,
officially an adult
gathering leftover wishbones
off the plates she laid out carefully before
sucking off dreamily the fragile remnants
biting till the blood flows
till she cleaves, even
the wish from the bone.
Artwork by Alexandre Cabanel, "The Birth of Venus"