by Joemario Umana
The demons I fight every day will tell you that Jacob was playing with the angel | for what is a fight without bloodshed? | So I make a gash on my hand’s neck | by its jugular | to bleed the demons out | I watch them slug out like a drowsy song of water | weakened | as the vein refuses to rebel against the blade| I’ve won | I’ve won | I sing | as I surrender to the light | stretching to me at the bottom of nothing | I become a floating thing | But that light | a yellow bulb wearing a halo of moths and tiny winged things | welcomes me back to life | The man in white says | he will live | I will live | a gavel sound to my never ending battle | My loved ones say I am selfish | I want to tell them to look at the mirror | I wonder if anyone ever asked Lazarus | if he wanted to wake up | But I understand | I understand | They call it love | Love makes us do things we don’t understand |
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. He tweets @JoemarioU38615.