“You could count all the faces
and all the birds in the sky
on this machine,” he told me.

“You could count
every hair
on my body

and every hand
that has ever existed

on this machine.

It is all recorded,

the misfortunes
of all grandmothers

and even the
triumphs of an ant
have been
acknowledged
by the machine.”

Loath to let it go
he turned from me
and hurried inside.

    Left alone
with his machine

I found the answer
  to who my father
    was

        and if I would
ever be held by loving hands.

I learned why my cousin
    took his life

and why I couldn’t take
    mine.

When I closed the machine
        briefly,

  my grandfather shouted,
      “Never close it!
It needs to keep counting!”