soup bones

deep in the fringe woods
there is a bone tree. i have visited it 
since i was a dinosaur. have come to leave
offerings of syrup & eyelashes. 
the bones ring like a hollow wind chime. 
i think everyone has a bone tree
they just have not gone wandering enough.
i ask permission to leave with 
a humorous or an ulna. the arm bones
make the sweetest soup. on my worst days
i have begged for a rib. thin & easy. 
translucent broth like a winnowing halo
cut in half. you do not get to choose your bones.
the tree has given me teeth. once,
a whole pelvis to wrestle with. 
that night an angel came & would not
stop calling me jacob. it was some bible thing
that i think i heard once when i was 
boiling in a church. the best thing about broth
is that you can share it & then it's almost
like sharing your bone tree. i have never
taken anyone else to see it. the tree would
dislike that very much. i am bad at secrets.
hence this poem. i crave confessions.
maybe it is because i was raised catholic
though i was never good at speaking my sins
aloud. i always made something up to the priest.
he was a boney man. i wonder if his tree
gave him nothing but finger bones & jaws.
he coughed a lot. folded his hands. i always wished
i could hear what my parents said in confession.
was it the truth or did they broth their sins
just like i did? sometimes i visit the tree
& it is empty. other times there are so many bones
that i grow fearful. what has the tree done
to acquire this many skeletons? really,
everything is a soup bone if you need it to be.
once, in the city, i could not find the tree.
i was wondering around. i had not told anyone
that i'd taken the train away. i found 
a lighter on a bench in the park. boiled it
until i could taste the fingers that held it.
the flame too, just out of reach.