My brother was a carpenter,
with wood-stained hands—
more cedar than cherry.
What's a hard wood?
I'm not the carpenter.
I can only use a saw
with help.
He had wooden talent.
His rawness was built
into the heartstrings in his palms.

The psalms face his black shoulders,
and I ask his forgiveness
for boxing him in hard plastic.
I'm not the carpenter.