Two hundred and six bones in the body;
all I need is one.

Digging into myself like I’m robbing a grave
because everybody likes to say
I don’t have a bad bone in me.
But of two hundred and six bones in the body,
surely there is at least one.

Can I find the same effectiveness
that Samson did with a jawbone?
What about a femur-long and strong-
converted into a club?
How about a rib
that pierces a lung when snapped?

No, of two hundred and six bones of the body,
none of these are the one.

How about the hammer, ankle, stirrup,
bones of the ear collecting truths I need to hear?
The ulna, the radius, the phalanges 
bearing the therapeutic tools I emot with?
A vertebra of the spine, the courage
invoked in moments of defending my boundaries?

Still no.
Of two hundred and six bones of the body,
these help, but they aren’t the one.

That leaves me with the hyoid,
the floating bone, held in place
only with muscles and ligaments,
aiding in swallowing and movements
of the tongue, including speech,
the words I could say, the falsity of
sticks and stones may break my bones
but words can never hurt me,
no, careless words can destroy,
can be deadly if used 
for intentional evils
and nobody, no one
is immune to the potential
of falling into these treacheries,
even me, every so often losing control and
how I really want to lose that control again.

So yes
out of the two hundred and six bones of the body,
I do have one bad bone.
It’s just all the rest of me
that keeps it in check.