I used to ask my knees why they smelt like the sea, I only asked because my knees have never seen the sea. But somehow their wrinkled faces held the scent of traveling winds. I used to know this man who carried bottles by his side. Bottles full of truths but he bottled them up. to afraid of how they would make people feel. I used to be the type of sinner that only prayed for my forgiveness on sunday afternoons. I used to be the type of sinner that held hands to tightly and left bruises on toddlers wrist. I was a vessel of holy water with not a drop to spare. And when you came crawling out from under my legs I knew your face. I knew your wrists and I remembered your thighs. But you remembered not. You didn’t know my face or know my wrists.

Your tattered legs all stained with salt while mother clutches rubble and calls out fathers fault. You sat on uneven legs in sister marys chair, she combed your nails while you bit your hair. And for seven years you wore bandages on your knees in hopes of removing them in your brothers sacred seas.

She held onto my ankles as she was swept out to sea.

Her hair full of salt. Her eyes full of me.

She held onto my ankles as she was swept out to sea.

Her body becoming the waves as they crashed upon me.

My feet no longer stand on those shores.

I've barred up my windows and sealed up my doors.

I sensed your storms a coming a long time ago.

Now I hide in solitude humming the songs I only know.

Humming the songs you only taught me.

The day you held my ankles and were swept out to sea.