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By Marianne Lemond

The washing machine is my altar

where I kneel in weekly prayer.

I sift out the whites from the colours,

their stains like blushes.

Splashes of wine,

grit from the city.

Your sweat,

my tears.

I pour the holy powder into the font,

and switch the machine to spin and pump.

I peer through the porthole,

wait for my shirts to be baptised.

For our sins to be rinsed away,

leaving me alone,


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