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[29] The Widow’s Reading I sat on the floor in Seoul, Korea Reading a book about female circumcision. It was dead winter, a persistent heat Came up through the linoleum Warming the thin futon. I was forty-one, a new widow, The danger in me had to leak out, I’d gone half-way across the world To a city of Siberian winds and incinerators To sit on the floor and read. I was reading about the desert. This was the first book I’d read since you died, About cattle and women and brides About a different kind of god. Every day I walked down the long cement staircase To pay to soak in the women’s baths, Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of myself In a plate glass window Looking perfectly pleasant in a scarf and hat. It comforted me, that city of millions Where no one cared if I lived, or died If I loved again, or made a great deal of money, Or sat on the floor Reading of marriage, and mutilation. ...

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