Bone piece

The memoir, the story of your life, is an object of questionable value.

You hold it in your hands,
what’s inside?
Is there a lock?
Does it open?

What’s it for?

You could take it to someone who specializes in these things, to appraise its value.

Keep, sell, discard?

There’s an entry point in the back under a groove
that feels like a latch
(or a trap).

I sit in the tub while the water drains
and air-dry like the turkey we cooked
for Christmas.

How long would it take, were it me, to cook, to eat?

And what would they do with the bones.

Photo credit, Loren Chasse.

Categories: Memoir, poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

14 replies

  1. certainly make a fine broth of them.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Suddenly considering going vegan.


    • Sorry, didn’t mean for that. Having “hoppin’ John” if you know that one, now. A touch PA Dutch perhaps. Or Creole, I guess.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Just kidding. I like the image of shaking the object and listening, like an unopened Xmas present, unexploded ordnance, etc.
        I worked for a summer at Jamestown, VA, and spent a lot of time staring at the stuff the archaeologists had dug up – – there was a skull with knife marks, from a bad patch when a settler turned to cannibalism. But heck, then I’d go home and have a hamburger.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. Pinterest might have some suggestions…

    Liked by 1 person

  4. You’ve written about your underwear too many times for me to consider some of these questions.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Picking over the bones of our own memoirs … Nicely put there, Bill. Very apt. And a Happy 2018 to you and yours

    Liked by 1 person

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