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. 

By Marianne Lemond