…Today I caught myself, become a sigh under my father’s breath.
Yesterday I was a prayer on my mother’s lips,
counting the rosary beads on her fingertips
because every of my flaw, placed her at war with my father…
Although introduced to the art of writing poetry in 2013 by Rev. Fr. Emmanuel Umanah at the minor seminary—Queen of Apostles Seminary, Afaha Obong, Abak, Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria—I began to pursue the art actively and purposefully in 2023. This shift came after what I would describe as an epiphany granted by Michael Imossan following a poetry slam in 2022, where he served as one of the judges, and I, a participant of the slam.
In 2023, my primary motivation was to express my frustration built up from a conflict of self-identity. I was (and still am) navigating this crisis: as the eldest son, a male child, and, in my parents’ eyes as of 2017, something of a disappointment due to my decision to abandon my initial ambition of becoming a Catholic priest. I remember in 2017, after deciding not to continue with the vocation, I didn’t gain admission to my preferred university to study the course I was passionate about (fortunately, I am now in the clinical year of that program).
That year, I had to stay home, and a lot happened that year and in the two that followed. Writing became my way of making sense of everything, distracting myself, and providing a sense of connection. Some of the poems in my poetry pamphlet, A Flower Is Not the Only Thing That’s Fragile, selected and published by Konya Shamsrumi, capture that period of my life.
The pamphlet also includes poems on boyhood, inspired by friends’ stories as we struggled to understand societal expectations of “being a man” and what that truly means.
Maybe by JoeMario Umana
First published in Brittle Paper, this poem later appeared and got selected by Poetry Journal ’24 as one of their in-house favorites. It’s also among the poems in the poetry pamphlet, ” A Flower Is Not the Only Thing That’s Fragile,” authored by the poet.
Some days, I wish I could moonwalk into my mother's belly,
back swim into my father's crotch,
become a thought not alive, still dead,
tell God to send a female me instead.
Today I caught myself, become a sigh under my father's breath.
Yesterday I was a prayer on my mother's lips,
counting the rosary beads on her fingertips
because every of my flaw, placed her at war with my father—
like when I forgot to collect the sky's tears when it wept,
and when I forgot the broomstick lying where I swept,
or when I couldn't crush the rat that rushed through my leg
and father cried, why am I acting like a woman for God's sake?
or when I was caught walking with Winifred,
fingers embracing, a taboo I booed unafraid.
I returned home to a battle field,
where anger has placed my home on siege,
and this I could tell from my father's eyes, setting me aflame,
and my mother's silence, burying my remains.
I paid a visit to the backyard,
where I could be a shard of maybes,
maybe they would have loved a daughter better,
maybe I could have been a better daughter.
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