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23 Rain, Rain All Week The sky’s ass has ripped, complains the neighbor across the street who always sits on her front steps mending other people’s clothes, spying on all comings and goings. I want to go to the market for bread and herbs, she moans holding up a fist to the sky as if all the evil of the world is woven into its grey and black spongy fabric and the devil, mad with idleness, squeezes it for fun. But when the sun slices open a corner, transforms raindrops into falling lint, the old woman holds out wrinkled palms, and whispers: Angels! and now her eyes flood bright, she is laughing, is the girl she must have been years ago before she was lost to this city of men, rough hands and veils. ...

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