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Janet Grillo 
for my sister
Laura, it´s as if there were a geology of the soul. The sediment of other people´s loves like layer upon layer of bondage and promise pushing us upwards into our lives. The very sadness that destroyed him beckoned her with the glimmer of the familiar so bright she mistook it for a jewel our mother, marrying the sadness of her father pushed to the altar by the layer that lay beneath; by the obedience of her own mother eager to stand beneath the crucifix. No matter what she told us we know the lesson of the sediment. An Italian woman, even in America is born to use her life like a loaf to feed the table lucky for the love he gives by taking by remaining, night after night By remains. He never fed us, our hungry father. Does he feed you now, this husband you selected to select it out--the gene of grieving? You feed your tears into his mouth like the Madonna bending over her devoured son like the bird, a servant to the nest of needy young.
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