Told to hold his hands
one palm pressed against
the other, in perfect parallel,
my brother instead
insists on curling them
together in a fist.
He says,
after a childhood accident
severed the nerves in his
left wrist, he requires this
to trust God holds his hand.
I understand this
need for pressure, this
requirement for some response.
Even resistance would comfort,
afterward, when every prayer
comes out a scream, even
an echo would be comforting,
but nothing gives back nothing.
Now, I wrap my hand in my hand
and grow weary with words
like prayer.
