first testament
i came into this city carrying one suitcase
filled with the memories of my father.
from up here, the city looks
like a woman trying on a new dress.
the city is a shrine, too. every one
of her three million population is
a god. god of fresh beginnings.
god of remnants, of skyscrapers.
god of men with incredulous faces
who know where to buy chances.
god of sex & dandelions
& Styrofoams & carbon monoxide
& intrusions & chocolate croissants.
the city walks like my
father, think of Denzel Washington.
the city has my father's voice, orotund.
to explain to us he was dying, my father
played the piano until the music carried
his name round the palace of his failing heart.
every memory has a birthmark, like the rainy day
he came home from the farm & joined his boys to
catch raindrops with his tongue.
fifteen years have fallen off of me in this city
& the magic is that i walk around the city
carrying a river in my mouth.
when it rains, i am reminded of tenderness
& how that in theory i am straight as an Iroko,
but in practice i want to scream, here, you can
browse my grief in a new incognito tab.
my son, who still believes the moon is a
pregnant woman, sleeps with a smile on his face.
watching him sleep is enough miracle, but even now,
in this partly lit room that smells of his innocence,
i miss my father & that too is part undressing part everything.
filled with the memories of my father.
from up here, the city looks
like a woman trying on a new dress.
the city is a shrine, too. every one
of her three million population is
a god. god of fresh beginnings.
god of remnants, of skyscrapers.
god of men with incredulous faces
who know where to buy chances.
god of sex & dandelions
& Styrofoams & carbon monoxide
& intrusions & chocolate croissants.
the city walks like my
father, think of Denzel Washington.
the city has my father's voice, orotund.
to explain to us he was dying, my father
played the piano until the music carried
his name round the palace of his failing heart.
every memory has a birthmark, like the rainy day
he came home from the farm & joined his boys to
catch raindrops with his tongue.
fifteen years have fallen off of me in this city
& the magic is that i walk around the city
carrying a river in my mouth.
when it rains, i am reminded of tenderness
& how that in theory i am straight as an Iroko,
but in practice i want to scream, here, you can
browse my grief in a new incognito tab.
my son, who still believes the moon is a
pregnant woman, sleeps with a smile on his face.
watching him sleep is enough miracle, but even now,
in this partly lit room that smells of his innocence,
i miss my father & that too is part undressing part everything.
Othuke Umukoro is a poet, playwright & an overzealous woodpecker from Nigeria. He is a Pushcart & 2x Best of the Net Nominee. He was shortlisted for the 2020 Bloomsday Poetry Competition organized by the Embassy of Ireland in Nigeria. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Tentacular, Mineral Lit Mag, The Sunlight Press, Sleet Magazine, Random Sample Review, Kissing Dynamite Poetry Journal & elsewhere. He tweets @othukeumukoro19
