The chicken feet stand
bodiless but jaunty
in the dusky vitrine
among a dozen bird beaks
bleached and folded
like picnic knives
on the glass shelves.
No reason’s given
for the two-step stance
or what happened
that left only the gams
kicking their heels for eternity
among the skulls and silence,
the musicians (and maker) long gone.
Their quarantine’s bad enough
in this taxidermized room –
those skulls all too big to fit
on the body they’ve not got –
but at some point they’ve oozed
a rusty slick; no one’s mopped up
that drooly sump, ninety years on.
Oh, mysterious bones,
piecemeal mausoleumed,
but ready, even so,
to jig come the resurrection –
why do we living drag our heels
when we should dance, clamp
our jaws when we should praise?