Anti-Nirvana as Nakba

by Joemario Umana

Mohammed Ibrahim

Say | a land | where the devil is an excuse for a man not owning his act | like Eve bore the burden of Adam’s fall | and the serpent for Eve’s | a land | where man plays God | forgetting he is just a man | On the news | lights are turned pitch black even before they know themselves | The “lights” | a synonym for match sticks dead before even being lit — a ricochet metaphor — dissolved in an acid of God gives | God takes | Please tell me | when did God pick up a rifle | and swap light with bullets in a body | turn it to a home of cold metals | watch the bullets bloom into pink flowers and spill like red syrup | Did he have the RPGs and dynamites | return everything to their genesis? | say dust | I ask | is the earth not sated with its fill ? | How much red wine will it sip before it regurgitates? | Can’t you feel its staggering gait? | I imagine the punctuated bodies play alive | say they were just pretending dead | women and children not crying | muted like a radio ridden of its voice | buildings not falling | bodies not obeying gravity | not dropping like insects with shed wings | And God stills no breaths | God abstains from gathering breaths | God refrains from collecting | his given breath|

---

Joemario Umana writes from Maiduguri. He’s a SprinNG fellow, a member of The Writers Manger Network and Poetic Nest. He has a poetry gazelle published by Konya Shamsrumi titled “A Flower Is Not The Only Thing That’s Fragile.” His poems are published in journals like Brittle Paper, Strange Horizons, Isele Magazine and elsewhere. He tweets @JoemarioU38615.