Now of Sundays’:

My knees are made of candle wicks.
They smell of old chewed gum
I sort of like ‘em that way.

Every morning I take them out
For a walk, east of schoolyard
Around the old Willow-Tree.

The flowers are breaking.
The taste of rotten feet, get w-a-a-ay
Down in my mouth.

Here, the sidewalk cracks smiles.
I’d hold my breath and grit my cheeks.

When Sunday calls. I go home.
To church bells that no-longer ring.

And the alter-ed prayers make candles leak.
Although the empty seats are falling.

These wicks hold memory.
How hard the waters ring.

Heavy are the knees that kneel.
Crackling prayers against the knee.

Still, we’ll go home,
Waiting for Sunday.~your Kindness sister Krissy Mosley