In the stories that they call me, faces easily coalesce: the one
who cries in diapers, who draws; who later says

our nation should return to God, and later still,
disbelieves Him. Frozen gestures whisper

that those days are more than fiction: scanned
to the social network, solidifying the myths of strangers

over wireless. It’s the same clichés: my parents in love,
smiling at the cider mill, while off-screen, bees swarm tables

and imitate blowing leaves down a dirt road. I can’t find
the picture where dad collapses inward, aching at the moment

mom admitted she’d never wait for him to want kids. I can’t find
the picture where his ring fell off, or where he

picked it up again in resignation, wanting what’s best for the boy:
static faces, stitched liked someone else’s album, gone viral.