the letter of our father’s suffering gets better with age.  in longhand he writes of a feast, of the fish made out of fish.  in childlike script of the child-actual, our father speaks to the gun he wants to own.  dear gun, he writes, but his arm locks itself in tic and fails to reset.  behind him, we perhaps foresee a pup pawing at a full length mirror.  as tonic, his mother suns herself nearby on a gravel driveway and her boy dips a small net into the back of her head.