I’m not afraid of dying but
when I sliced my hand open I saw
straight to the bone,

sat with my head turned back
circling LA in an Uber searching for
a late night salvation -

all I could think about was
my skeleton -

the one in the Halloween
party suit,
black and white and sometimes clicking
as you dance,

all the milk we were made
to drink at school
to fend off osteoporosis -

that time I cut my foot on a rock
in the surf and how a small
segment of my fibular
is still sunk amongst the coral
at the bottom of the Java Sea.

My body,
just this box to carry it all in,
keeping my insides safe as they
move through this world -

sometimes I’m good at safekeeping
and sometimes I’m not.

Nurse Keith’s hands are slowly threading
the needle through the quilting
of my skin and I ask him,

Do everyone’s bones look the same?
They mostly do,
he replies, stitching,
yours are quite small
but nice and white.

Like milk?
I ask but it’s 2am in A&E now
and I can’t hear the answer.

He finishes off the paperwork,
turns to let me leave and says -

They're the only thing that carry the same shape
your whole life,
you know.

I start making my way
down the corridor into the
Los Angelian night and it’s as if I can hear him saying,

Do good things. Have good bones.
There’s not much more
we can control than that.