Jostling, a consolation

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.