OCR Text |
Show 73 it at the museum store and left and for a while just walked. He caught a taxi in the park. His seatmate was the thinnest woman he had ever seen. "Are you going to Las Vegas?" Hunt asked. "What?" she said, frightened. She shook. "Las Vegas," Hunt tried, reversing the order for clarity. "Are you going there?" "I'm going with this plane," the woman said. Her eyes consumed her skull with agitation and with light. She clutched her fingers. No words broke again until they were fully airborne. They were in the sky over Pennsylvania. She began: "I've never left New York City." Then continued: "I've never wanted to. It's never been at all necessary. Everything that I've needed is here -- there; where are we? I grow sprouts on my fire escape. My husband's a poet. We're estranged. He's a world-famous poet now. He gives readings. He's a friend of all the poets. Israeli poets. Danish, Chilean poets. Indian poets. Black poets. He has them all in his revised anthology. He translates them. He's internationally known. He writes to all these people. He goes to prisons. Only -- he doesn't like women." "I see." "And that's why we're estranged." II T II 1 . . • "But I have his children. They're mine. I mean, they're with my friend, |