Grandma climbs a chair to yell at God for killing¹

    her only husband whose only crime was forgetting

    where he put things. Finally， God misplaced him. Everyone

    in this house is a razor， a police radio， a bulging² vein³.

    It's too late for any of us， Grandma says to the ceiling.

    She believes we are chosen to be disgraced and perplexed⁴.

    She squints⁵ at anyone who treats her like a customer， including

    the toilet mirror， and twists her mouth into a deadly scheme.

    Late at night I run at the mirror until I disappear. The day is over

    before it begins， Grandma says， jerking the shade down over

    its once rosy⁶ eye. She keeps her husband's teeth in a matchbox，

    in perfumed paraffin； his silk skullcap （with its orthodox stains）

    in the icebox， behind Uncle's Jell-O aquarium⁷ of floating lowlifes.

    I know what Mrs. Einhorn said Mrs. Edels told Mr. Kook about us：

    God save us from having one shirt， one eye， one child. I know

    in order to survive. Grandma throws her shawl of exuberant⁸ birds

    over her bony shoulders and ladles up yet another chicken thigh⁹

    out of the steaming broth¹⁰ of the infinite night sky.