by The Simile Museum

“Our mother is the sole survivor. We leave her trembling in the chapel. Where light filters through the glass belly of a saint. She sways on her knees like a nervous parakeet. Light comes through the shepherd, then through the lamb. Her glasses are huge. Her lips are drawn to a tiny slit. With her hands she pushes down the air. She chirps, but, but, but.”

-Beth Steidle

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