The Bones Are Good.
The bones are good.
My immigrant father sings this to me,
and it becomes a bittersweet lullaby.
The bones are good.
Which means
you could make a beautiful life here
with a little bit of elbow grease
and a lot of care.
The words slip like Flint down my throat.
My mother echoes
The bones are good.
Which means
sure, there’s things to fix like
the ceiling leaks,
the cages are open,
the floors are rotting,
and the ground is barren, but
you could.
A prayer sung over their young.
You’ve got the moxie,
the work ethic.
You could make this a gorgeous home.
I mean, the bones are good.
The cadence dips and flows as
others join the repetition.
Try to stay on tempo.
The transgender woman with colorful headscarves says the phrase
as she slips into shoes for her second job.
A dash of comfort,
as spicy as the food and advice she hands me over the fence.
The older lady across the street
who rolls both R’s and names across her tongue lovingly.
The young employee trying their hardest
to convince both me and themselves.
The pastor from his pulpit,
the celebrity from his camera,
the nonprofit leader from their 15K/mth house
all repeat the refrain relentlessly.
It’s not the time to renovate,
but the bones are good.
Have patience. Don’t be a troublemaker.
The bones are good.
