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by Sarah Mae Allard

My mother wanted to name me Machias
after the lake in Maine
where the Passamaquoddy Indian tribe
birthed my great-great-
great grandmother, who was half
white. But only one onehundredth
of my blood still contains this
history, so she knew I was a traitor
to the name.

My mother's boneyard follows me,
stone to sea, shrieking. She and I
both sing in the same voice, our mouths
pried open and weeping. Our eyes
close at the same time
thousands of miles apart. And she
is stuck with this; with Sarah.



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