Wish Bones

 

Wish bones

I found them this morning
On the window sill above the kitchen sink
Delicate, dry,
Bleached by months, years even
Of afternoon sunlight.

I am not sure why I keep them.
Childhood habit, I suppose,
And the deeply ingrained frugality
That always makes me
Strip the last shreds
Of meat from bones, of a chicken
Simmered for soup
After the easy picking is done.

I haven't wished on one of those brittle bones in years,
Not since standing
In the kitchen with my brother,
Supervised by  our Grandma Sal.
Or perhaps our mother.

What did we wish for then?
A pet?
A toy?
An athletic victory?
Then the snap of the fragile bone
And success and  failure facing  one another
With broken bone
Clutched in our fists.

I think of throwing the bones away.
Why should I keep such
Symbols of win and lose
And breaking?
Who would I want to face
Pitting my silent wish
Against theirs?

But I leave them there,
Among bottles and candle holders,
Because of the fascination
Those bones hold
 In their asymmetrical, sculpted beauty
And their aura of random
Divination
Which might make my wish
Come true.