sitting bespectaled 
in the focus of my grandma's myopia,
he regenerates hope
as the ruler of her nation of images.
she remembers drawing his face 
upon the blank form of her husband;
he remembers the softness of her fist
and the tingles of expectation.
if the family consisted of only her,
my store would be out of business.
chancy-dancy, we are all here,
selling resemblances to a bucket of cold fish,
bargaining for air
feeling the water leak out from between our legs.
i 
am a table.

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