death takes its place at the head of the table to tell the only story it knows to plates of untouched food.  upstairs, your mother puts a hole in her hair hoping the lord of the attic will take her for a tea kettle.  outside, a boy paces on his father’s land to mock the dark with what it cannot do.  trespassing, I approach two dimming flashlights set upright in cemetery mud.  in your recollection they are the horns of an empty beast.