aubade to windbreak

my—-brother——-broke his arm
at the—elbow—–when he was
little, his left arm now shorter than
his right. at 21, he trudges, his
arm—right-angled—to his body,
like a knife leading the slaughter.
the—breakage—confounds me:
the bond of tissues with bones,
the ire of flesh like a gauntlet.
i kiss what is left of the knots,
i smell the tangles, the twists,
the wrenches, as if to exorcise;
&—i wonder what he might say
to—himself in a room when his
scar reminds—him he’s broken
somewhere—that never can
join again. i used to think that
his smiles were an epigraph of
stars. i used to—think the—bro-
ken are unsullied, unexamined
by human broken shards & shells
i used to—think the broken are
the wobbled maps of the world,
a reminder—of all— “hurt” places,
until—he found a store one day
inside—his guts for pills & calm.
until he said to me “this is my
way of hiding the grief’s alchemy.”
until his words felt sore in my ears & the
ruins of childhood—appalled me.
Yessuf’s grandeur descended
among the underfoot. Like the sea,
Yessuf’s faith receded.
tonight, —-i——–sit——-propped
against a broken wall. its cracks
let me in & i—i feel everything

Letter to My Brother

 

Yessuf, I write this letter after the trauma of your
photographing a burning city, surrounded by flames
large enough to consume you. I pray you return as
the same Yessuf that we all know.

 

worms caked in salt,

wriggling out of their skins,

 

remind me of your body

shedding light, wrenching

 

out of itself. what do you

name the tongue that speaks

 

sorrows before the unseen?

silence. memory that makes

 

the rain that makes the grass bend.

swig at your tears in flutters

 

of eyelids, fill the blank spaces.

nothing holds home anymore.

 

not this universe burning

in your eyes. not the undulating

 

wind populated with morbid

cries that tear your soul apart.

 

not the boy you photographed

amid the rubble. still when the bird

 

flies, it takes the borders along.

there are no boundaries to pains

 

you can unsee, brother. an ant

hefting its penance across fields,

 

what does a boulder mean to it?

Aremu Adams Adebisi is an African nonfiction writer, poet, social scientist, and digital entrepreneur based in Lagos. He authors work inspired by afro ranges and currency, some of which have been published in Lucent Dreaming, Thimblelitmag, Third Wednesday Magazine, The Account Magazine, RIGOROUS, Cathexis Northwest Press, Terse Journal, Nzuri Journal, Bath Magg, Barren Magazine, etc. He edits for ARTmosterrific and Newfound. He is a Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize, and Best New Poets nominee. A recipient of the 2021 Langston Hughes Fellowship, Aremu facilitates the Transcendence Masterclass for creative writers in Africa.