City BusJilly Dybka
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.
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