Jostling, a consolationKirsten Kaschock
The bone-juggler tossed his hard scarves against air. Someone’s parts in rearrangement. Not all parts. Some go before. Some are boiled away and then there’s lye. This one woman had no uterus. None ever do. She was his newest bones. Done parsing her out by weight into the others’ piles of birch— the bone-juggler makes a recipe and stuffs the proper sacks in preparation—as I might several birds for a wedding.
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