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83 True East Hard as silverware, your penis points the way out of bed, a compass needle heading true east. Your girlfriend’s eyes move behind her lids, one earring lying on your pillow, divorced. Rising, you leave the bed as you did your childhood days: splayed behind you, unordered, in chaos. Washing, the mirror reminds you of your parents, those often-striking air traffic controllers, whose own faulty bearings gave you fouled-up coordinates, mistaken headings over distant airfields where safe childhoods waited on the ground. Your penis subdued now like an unruly child calmed, you dress near the bed. Your girlfriend’s eyes slide behind her lids, search for offspring. You bend to kiss her gently-creased forehead. From her lips, frozen open the width of a baby’s tiniest toe, you swear you can hear words leaking out. Why? Why won’t you give me any children? ...

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