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