Colleen Boehme

The Knees You come home with skinned knees (falling in a parking lot). You’re smiling. Your legs are dripping blood. They bruise something-Purple, Green and Brown. A terrible injury on a body already so gaunt and so gone, Yet you smile. You say, “Life’s not supposed to be easy.” The skin takes forever to heal. Healing knees on a dying body, Wasted effort I suppose. It’s hard to look at them, Your battered knees. It’s hard to look at you, Or hug your wasting frame. But I do. I force myself. I look at you. I smile weakly. Because lately, the only other thing I ever seem to do is cry. Or seethe. I think that God failed you in so many ways. I think you’ve been forgotten and abandoned. And your ruined knees are nothing but the latest example of this. The latest assault and attack against you. 48