Grandma climbs a chair to yell at God for killing

    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 bulging vein.

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

    She believes we are chosen to be disgraced and perplexed.

    She squints 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 rosy 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 aquarium 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 exuberant birds

    over her bony shoulders and ladles up yet another chicken thigh

    out of the steaming broth of the infinite night sky.