Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Last night, I dreamt I held my brother to my chest.

An army of uniforms threw their batons into the air

and onto the body of a man I could not recognise.

What I recognised was the city, its commonplaceness,

the prophetic colour of the clouds and their promise

of something dire. Strange as dreams are,

Harare is unambiguous.

In my dream, my brother was a boy of three or four,

body a lump in the dip of my breast, body like pupa,

a metronome, laying close, leaning towards something

other than death. I’ve never watched someone kill a man

but at night, the happening came seeping through my door

and into my bed. It wasn’t the first time I dreamt

of my brother as my own child.

In my language, the dead are welcomed into the home.

But the word for home is also the word for sing, so maybe

invited into a song, to begin and end somewhere foreseeable,

to be interpreted by dreams, to give diagnosis to ailment, to clean

up a scrapyard of men from the streets. Maybe home is a dirge

invoked by dreaming, an elegy for those we can’t afford to lose.