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In Pryor, Oklahoma.

My mother, selfish, won't give me any turnips. Her eyes, darting for the door where the workman she fives with enters, my stomach, a hungry, dull ache and I wave my hands, mostly to the weather of the window and pray for a destiny of oil and gladness. The small sweep of the broom, my past circling in the dull room behind me my small dog follows, the sun reflecting from my dark skin, I think, for a moment, I could be a rabbi, the sky, infinite above me, my large friend.
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Author:Smiddy, Nina
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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