I show signs of having been alone beside a machine.  I can count on my fingers the fingers I’ve lost.  I am not like a newborn.  my feet are each one smaller than the last as are my meals.  like my father before me, I have a hard time being drawn to what attracts me.  like my mother, I cook for those who’ve gone in and out of the eating disorder condoned by the church of sleep.  like sister, I watch as my brother sets forgiveness as a trap for god.  not every animal I see is an illusion.  my eyes open twice to be flashed by the same short life.  anything I name I give a prime number.  appear to the sick I remember.