July/August 2011

Hello, Brother

A new poem

by Zubair Ahmed
I pick up an earthworm
And you shoot it with a rifle.
Mom screams at us
But we don’t listen.
She fed us expired milk this morning.
Sometimes in these Bengali summers
When dust sticks to our skins
And the crows shit on our heads
We bond like hydrocarbons,
Set mosquitoes on fire
And eat berries whose names we can’t remember.
We ride our bikes like metal antelopes
Like drunken sparrows.

We hope you enjoy this excerpt.

To read the full piece, please visit our store to purchase a copy of the magazine.

Zubair Ahmed was born and raised in Dhaka, Bangladesh. In 2005, he and his family won the DV lottery and received the opportunity to emigrate to the U.S. He now studies mechanical engineering and creative writing at Stanford University.

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