a framed pencil sketch
hangs cattycorner from my crib
an amateur’s rendering of
a hand, a baby’s head, a wrist
someone thought the execution
good enough to frame, good enough
to hang in a baby’s room
parts of a baby for the baby
ivory paper, smudged gray lead
clear glass, a black frame
how old am I when I recognize
my own self? dissected
the parts refuse to cohere, head
without a neck, hand here
wrist there, no arm, no body
think about who must have hung it
how many years pass before
I smash this mirror, splinter
the frame, tear up the sketch
bury my remains in the attic
