My brother lies dying
in the same hospital in which he was born
three floors away from where my father
laughed, looking into his own wooden eyes
on his first-born’s face.
My mother’s tears ran on flushed cheeks because
this one survived.
Every other son had died in warm womb
before their hearts had even fully formed.
But my brother took twenty-two years
to find his grave.
In these white crisp walls my father
whispering silent words to
tubes and moniters.
My mother’s eyes cast up
through floorboards and grimed tiles,
past the room where his life began
and prays for it to end.