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The Christ in my body.

The night is in my hand. It is early morning, too, and, afternoon, come through the door like panels of light so I can make love. We sit on the bed, my best friend and myself. I'm watching her sew, talking a bit. My husband is working, and already the wine from the window is in my cup. I drink, although it tastes very bitter. I didn't expect this, but ice after ice and even then some, coming home we can drink cold water, glass after glass.
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Author:Smiddy, Nina
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jan 1, 1993
Words:87
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