Overheard Under the Bog

What’s going on? asked the bones.
Bones feel entitled to ask.
They’re treasured, and they know it—

Of all the parts of a corpse,
What’s most likely to be saved,
Most likely displayed? The bones.

Even the brains are ashamed
Of the way they look, pickled,
And all lymph nodes know they’re loathed,

But the bones fancy themselves
A community alone,
An afterlife of their own.

What’s going on, asked these bones,
Bored. Liquefaction, saps,
The cold, acid tongue replied.