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Purified

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,

purified.

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