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Polygamy Small operas, the seedy merchants at the blurred ends of fuming streets in the immigrant photographs, insist on it. What are you supposed to do with desire in America, where your heart is so many poor shops? He takes a girl to the Catskills on a bus. Her dull kerchief and the black hairs wire out in sad profile against the window. He marries her. He understands the milk-lipped and clean economy in his hand touching her hair. The plight of the stateless. The hopeless milk inside the cool mouths of the Baltic. She has so much to sell across the little counter until it is all sold. What are you supposed to do with scarcity when you are starving yourself and the next street is another America just as sad with its own kinds of trees and with adults living in a child's room, bowed under the beams? I married a woman, knowing I was stealing from her, knowing what becomes of desire in stateless times and at the blurred ends of streets and to the immigrant music of small operas bowed under the beams. Understanding the economy of love fills no shop, liberates no country. No one ever returns after he cheats someone. He stares out bus windows. He walks the cold margin of the Baltic, looking for coins. II ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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