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Saint Rita
- Red Hen Press
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38 Saint Rita I went to bed as Gilda and woke up me again, still the patron saint of bad marriages and atomic bombs in peace time, still dancing in black and white. There are cows dying of old age in the pasture and calves with faces of young boys, steady and self-contained living out awed lives in fields of green sway. They never think of me and for this I bless them. ...