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The Thing about Channels
Iowa Review : literary quarterly
The Thing about Channels WHENEVER I REGARDED my mother's skin in those last few months on Wellfleet, I thought of the gardenia in the side yard, the way their petals would brown from the slightest touch of your finger like some thing bruised. The cancer fed on her color from deep in the marrow, leaving her landlocked that summer, whiter than a sand dollar and more fragile still. But even in dog-eared photographs you'd see how every long-distance swim left her one shade darker, skin polished todoi:10.17077/0021-065x.4466 fatcat:invw7xmn3fh7tknjreqrpszzba