my brother has broad shoulders and a straight back.

he is a pillar of stone and a slab of concrete,

the way he marches around the house.

he has hair the consistency of canvas and his laugh

echoes like lions leading jungles. royalty,

some call it, how he sits

or taps his foot in time with his breaths:

quick then slow

quick then slow

quick then slow

again.

his artistry is bending, although he does it backwards

sometimes for the wrong people. he is carved from marble,

his chiseled muscles moving

in a sort of dance that lacks music or a partner.

he likes numbers.

counts the leaves of lettuce he allows himself,

counts his low test scores toward his inadequacy.

his statue cracks and crumbles,

his voice rises like an unwanted sun.

his sockets sprout green-tinted moss.

my brother is frozen in time, transfixed stone

with a list of spineless claims.

he is still learning to straighten.