Thy brother’s blood
crieth unto me from the ground.
—Genesis 4:10

All night we lie,
two heads in a womb,
to keep the dream close.
Like hands that cup a match
in wind, we try to keep it still and straight,
but under the sheets our knees
rattle. In my dream,
I unsheathe his bones
and put them in a jar.
On the desk, they
stare. His eyelids are
heavy as leather. I wake
to slip my arm from under his neck:
he beats my chest and falls
into it. I keep him there
like a moth in a bell. I give
breath, flap of lung. Look,
the moon still glints
in rainwater and crickets call.
His eyelids flicker up and fall.
I go to the sink
and pick off my face the skin,
scald my fingers under the tap.
This room is an urn whose walls
chip and thin. The mattress slip
is cold against my thighs,
now part the blinds.
Father, look at the hands,
the knees, the morning’s
many suns that blind;
look at the tongues like sick coals
that crack teeth, ready
to sing psalms, wanting to pray,
while your palm of clay
keeps our throats unsung,
and one fly on the sill
carves two names in dust.