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“These rocks are the church where I knelt in black worsted silk beside my mother. Her shoulders sharp beneath my embrace. My mother: a solid wailing. These rocks are the soil where she kneels before the whorls of roses, kneeing before that box as if it were my father's grave. The closed anemones offer their sticky blossoms as the tide washes toward me. Small bits of the coast meet my skin, scraping my iron onto my knees.” — Michelle Peñaloza
These rocks
are the church
where I knelt
in black worsted silk
beside my mother.
Her shoulders sharp
beneath my embrace.
My mother: a solid wailing.
These rocks are the soil
where she kneels
before the whorls of roses,
kneeing before that box
as if it were my father's grave.
The closed anemones
offer their sticky blossoms
as the tide washes toward me.
Small bits of the coast
meet my skin,
scraping my iron onto my knees.