Monophobia

By Joemario Umana

In Genesis, God, scared of silence, cracked it
like an egg, its yolk spilling into the void—light.
Overwhelmed by loneliness, He gardened life,
rib-boned companions. I trace His fears in mine,
where quiet clings like cobwebs, gossamer-thin
yet suffocating. I told this to someone I loved
when she asked what darkens me with dread.
She’d beaded her breath for me to say death,
but like God, it’s the quiet—the stillness.
Every day, nothing comes around:
in shifting clouds, in slow self-procrastination,
failed declarations, the staring of white pages,
empty sex in cheap motels, returning to nights
spread across cold beds like oiled bread,
craving warmth they’ll never hold, in promises
to self—to love it better than no one else.
I sweep a dictionary with my fingers to name
what scares me. It coughs out monophobia as dust.
And I wonder if, when God created light,
it was less for creation, & more to banish
the dread of being alone.

BIO:
Joemario Umana, SWAN XVII, is a Nigerian creative writer and a performance poet who considers himself a wildflower. He hails from Akwa Ibom state. He tweets @JoemarioU38615.

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