The boy harvested bones

The boy harvested bones
The room cold
Bathed in flickering fluorescence
An antiseptic tang mingling with the meat
His fingertips free
They stung
But freedom of movement took precedence


He thinks of happy things
As he cuts
Dividing skin from skin
from muscle from hard, white bone


He imagines himself small
Protected from what the world offered
Little legs pumping
His father jogging beside
Then behind
As two wheels spun finally on their own beneath him


He turned his head
A fleeting mistake
His dad beaming in the moment
The veil of disassociation falls away
Slips to the floor


He turned his head
He saw her face
She had been young
Not quite beautiful
Her cheeks hollowed and sallow now
As he tugs
Hands grasping the column of her femur
Wrenching it loose