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Naked in the city where I honeymooned.

Last night I shuffled through the streets of New Orleans. Every time I looked in the windows for rooms, I kept walking. The rooms were dumps. At last I entered one, a low rent place. There were two old ladies asleep on the bed and bodies on the couches with blankets over them. I helped myself to some tortilla chips. One woman awoke and said, "Help yourself, but there's no meat." Then, she mentioned the corpses. Walking further, I entered a woman's house named Mary. I think she was my mother. She'd been trying to call the priest, but the phone didn't work. I picked it up and got a dial tone. Then I heard an angel say something: about using the phone and the room became the wind.
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Author:Smiddy, Nina
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
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