/IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER AND THE SON DISAPPEARS


How can you say [in] the name of the father
and the son disappears?
Someone says by leaving
a hole in the son's spirit.

Some days I take myself
to the time Jesus cried, 
father, father, why turn your face from me?
And I see a boy clamoring
for his father's recognition
but gets admonition instead.

You don't need ammunition to take a life,
words and actions are already breathtaking,
someone said.

Picture this, a boy trapping the wind
between his legs, as his feet knock the ground, 
running home with a paper housing congratulations,
hoping his father's face to steal the sun's shine,
only to be knifed down with,
if the heads of those that did better are like cobra’s

Close your eyes, do you see a soul
take the shape of water, drop to the ground?

I've seen many stars burn themselves out
trying to be the sun because the sky didn't appreciate them enough.
I've seen many broken necks
because of heavy crowns.
I've seen water become thicker than blood,
because blood is too hard to please
enough 



/ACHILLES HEEL I PRAY INTO FLESH

after Clifton Gachagua

I like to think of your eyes like tour guides taking me on a journey
through the nooks and crannies of your soul.
I like to think of your smile like a mop drying sadness from the face of the earth.
I like to think of you and me like the lines on our palms turned one
when we bring our hands together.
I like to think of your morning face like a beauty that dawn can't stand, so jealous of.
I like to think of your voice like my favorite soup, which I swallow a morsel of soft
tuwo with—like Fajr that wakes my mornings.
I like to think of you like a god I now pray to, a god my loyalty lies with.
I like the opening of your joined palms, which is like an urn where my ashes find
a home, like Clifton Gachagua.
I like to think of you like my pulsing heart, a reminder that I am alive.
I like to think of you like burst-out morning praises from a heart soaked in joy,
like bread in a muddy chocolate cup.
I like to think of you like my belt holding my trousers to my emaciating waist.
I like to think of you like your scent that never leaves my bed, where we've had sex,
or on my clothes, which you're always small in.
I think of you every time I see an explore perfume, talc powder, an ice cream stain
on someone's lips, a drop of food on my shirt.
And at night when you're not beside me, I pray you into life, into flesh.
And if all these things make me soft like bread freshly out of the oven,
I love to think of you as my Achilles heel—the only thing that makes me human.

About the Author:

Joemario Umana’s works have appeared and forthcoming in journals like the anthology publication of NSPP 2022, Loch Raven Review, The Kalahari Review, Lunaris Review, Ngiga Review, Eboquills, Nantygreens, Poemify, Punocracy, Spillwords and elsewhere. His works have drawn literary appreciation to themselves.

*feature image by Reza Muhammad Fairuz from Pixabay