There are 206 bones in my body.
206 ways to break and bruise and punish.
206 words to describe the trees in winter and the pain of memory.
I could tell you all of them.
All about them, too
Names, position, function.
I could teach you how to keep them strong and healthy
And yet
All the research in the world
Couldn't tell me why they vanish
In your presence.
Maybe they’re shy
The butterflies get to them, maybe even worse than they do me
Maybe they want to give us privacy,
The big mama skull ushering her children out of the room,
The nearly identical ribs roughhousing with the hips
And the smallest who make up my pinkies ducking through the door last,
But not without a peek back and a giggle.
There are 206 bones in my body,
And I do not regret a single one.