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SURROGATES Mother would push her hand inside the cow slow, up to the elbow, make the animal arch its back to the right curve for her silver gun, steady and quick as a stud. Months later her child slid loose from the womb. I stood with my mother, watched the cow push and push that perfect head past the sopping braid of a gutter tail, and oh, how his eyes would roll open, a stare both sad and amazed. In the sink I mixed that first milk: tap water and his ration of sticky, sour powder. My hand tight on the nipple,  he pulled and pressed so hard the bottle dug into my ribs, even popped open and spilled. As a special treat, I offered my fingers, their skin wrinkled and tasteless, but like a teat.  ...

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