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By Mary
I'm told the earth, by astonishing, miraculous coincidence, is precisely the right size to cast a round shadow of exactly correct proportions to fit entirely upon the moon's surface. I'm told this casually by the man I love, as if it were common knowledge, as if it were true. Perhaps it is. I need it to be. I need, all the time, for something to be true. A globe casting its penny into heaven's river. What to do with such a silvered ship? And how do I keep my feet planted on this hot sidewalk, dying of thirst, bottle of water in my hand?
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