Un-monochromatic day

By Joemario Umana

The world is a museum, and I, a visitor as much as an artifact in it.

From where I stand, / absorbing the world the way a sponge absorbs
water, / the branches of the tree before me haunt me. /
How they look like stretched-out ribs—beautiful
and disturbing all at once. / It’s a funny thing, / to associate
haunting with beauty / the way silence ruins melody. /

Again, / the tree is a cathedral; each leaf a prayer;
the stem a solemn hymn; its roots take reality all back to the earth. /

The world breathes around me. / The breath crushes my skin /
along with light from the sky’s eye kissing it, / tender
like wet lips. / It’s not tindering. / Mother’s milk. /

There’s a vein of water before me. /
It’s rushing to purgatory after leaving home. /
Everything is announcing, / even the quiet blooming of a wildflower. /

I’m taking in all the wonder slowly / like dragging on a cigarette. /
It’s pink—the feeling. / It’s pink. / It feels like a baby’s skin and
a baby’s smile—soft and attention-trapping. / It feels like silk. /

I baptize this surrealism with the sky’s leftover tears. /
I name this heavenly. /

BIO:
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.