Mother-ground, show me roots, in your bare, dirty, kiss.
—Margo Berdeshevsky, Amber is a Tree's Blood

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The Island

My mother tells a story I barely remember and I see it again as she tells it and then I do not know if it is my memory or hers. She says one summer a fisherman brought us to a beach with his caïque. He said he would be back in some hours. No other people were there and no people had ever been there and the sand was hot and white. We swam and she spread the straw mat and we lay in the sun until it was too hot. When I had eaten I fell asleep in her side. The hours passed and the white heat of midday came and went and the fisherman did not return. My mother woke me and said perhaps the man had forgotten us. I ask was she afraid and she says, No. You woke curled against me and the sand was turning cool and the sea was only thin ripples grazing the shore. 

— helen dimos


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