My joints are mortars and pestles

that make a fine powder of sage and thyme–

times I have tasted tamarack

in the turning

morning– taken by the sumac

syrup in my lungs–

breathe in the thin dust of the season–

seasoning my bones for the goulash–

grinding for the gumbo– I want to be

consumed in the calamitous combinations

of a soup with sprigs of parsley that float

like hair pins.

Swallow me slow from the cove-belly

of the spoon.

I am alphabet soup with only As and Qs

contaminated with curry

that stain the bowl a sulfur mustard yellow.

Stir the pot with my femurs.

Drink careful from the rim of

my skull.