Tucked away in our tiny bedroom so near
each other the edge of my prayer rug
covered the edge of his, my brother and I
prayed. We were 18 and 11 maybe, or 19
and 12. He was back from college where
he built his own computer and girls kissed
him on the mouth. I was barely anything,
just wanted to be left alone to read and watch
The Simpsons.

We prayed together as we had done
thousands of times, rushing ablutions
over the sink, laying our janamazes out
toward the window facing the elm which
one summer held an actual crow’s nest
full of baby crows: fuzzy, black-beaked
fruit, they were miracles we did not think
to treasure.

My brother and I hurried through sloppy
postures of praise, quiet as the light
pooling around us. The room was so
small our twin bed took up nearly all of
it, and as my brother, tall and endless,
moved to kneel, his foot caught the coiled
brass doorstop, which issued forth a loud
brooong. The noise crashed around the
room like a long, wet bullet shredding
through porcelain.