Tonight, as the sky pee on earth
my roof makes music with it.
Inside, the color of charcoal
engulfs me and the one
I call mine, as we lay
like two farm ridges
on my bed. Brimming red
with desire, I turn to her
seeking the alchemy of water
on burning coal, and she doesn’t
see her mood. Yesterday
she was seeing her blood.
My hand snails underneath her vest
to the mounds on her chest
and receives a bite from her palm.
How do I tame the fire between my legs?
How do I calm this quaking bone?
Each, a throbbing litany.
Again, tonight, the soap, the hand,
the rod, sharpens each other.
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Joemario Umana is from Akwa Ibom state, Nigeria. He writes from Maiduguri, a northeastern region of Nigeria where he’s currently undergoing his studies. He is the author of the poetry gazelle published by Konya Shamsrumi titled A Flower Is Not The Only Thing That’s Fragile. His works have appeared in Trampset, Strange Horizons, Isele Magazine, Brittle Paper and elsewhere.