—for my mother the time of happiness as a private matter is over, Hitler rants on the kitchen radio shards of music crackle with static, cow brains sizzle in sardine oil saved from the tin. her mother boils coffee made from chicory, from acorns, from dust she wraps an orange in a towel: close your eyes and make believe we have a birthday cake for you the girl closes her eyes and makes her wish: red shoes for one day, red shoes.