These rocksare the churchwhere I knelt in black worsted silkbeside my mother.Her shoulders sharpbeneath my embrace.My mother: a solid wailing.These rocks are the soilwhere she kneelsbefore the whorls of roses,kneeing before that boxas if it were my father's grave.The closed anemonesoffer their sticky blossomsas the tide washes toward me.Small bits of the coastmeet my skin,scraping my iron onto my knees.
-Michelle Peñaloza
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