brother
Taha Ahmar Qadeer | Poetry
brother, one day we’ll be stardust. for now let’s dance at the durbar.
brother, come closer, i’m tired of your face crossed off by fence,
this metal between us, bold like a headline, cold as a blizzard’s eye.
o’ brother, may i let my honesty slip—? my arms miss the length
of your neck. i ask the lord daily if you’re worth the appetite of nuclear eclipse.
brother, in one wet midnight breath, i swallow the leviathan roar of crickets.
it’s true, i pray only when i have a lament worth bleeding for, screaming bloody
brother in the rain, if a brazen sky stands between us, let it be lit.
i lead you down the street to all my secrets. confess my need to be undeniable
like a hurricane. we see the sun go down from the hill i’ll die on—
brother, trust we’re rust either way. you know your wounds
are an echo of the man you could have been. i imagine a life brother
where we don’t leave an anthem breathless—at the bottom of a lake.
brother, i don’t bother searching for any of god’s names when you are
finger-length away. i yearn in full bloom, but you are blind to me like wind is
to dandelions. brother. if you must know, you are kinder than my inner weather.
Taha Ahmar Qadeer is a writer, researcher, and translator from Lahore, Pakistan. He received his BA in Psychology and Literature from Bennington College and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Washington University in St. Louis.