Othuke Umukoro
a brief guide to remembering
i remember the kindling night my sister came out.
the cicadas were on a hiatus.
i remember the day father brought home our
first dog. i was sucking a stalk of sugar cane.
i remember my first kiss. it was
terrible, according to lola's last minute
allegation—my least failure, evidently.
i remember the first time father sent mama crashing
down the creaky stairs with the thunderbolt from the
back of his hand. i saw everything in slow motion.
i was seven. he was wearing blue jeans.
i remember the only time i saw a ghost. i had just
finished masturbating & i thought he had come to
drag me down to his yellow-light purgatory.
i remember my first open, vulnerable conversation.
it was with the turkey, seventeen minutes before the
house help dragged the blade across
his throat for my birthday.
i remember my ninth grade social studies teacher.
he believed minimalism is the first computational
steps to being agnostic.
i remember when i wrote the first, crappy
draft of this poem. i had just put out the back
porch lights when mama's tremulous
voice told me on the phone that he
was dying of lung cancer.
the cicadas were on a hiatus.
i remember the day father brought home our
first dog. i was sucking a stalk of sugar cane.
i remember my first kiss. it was
terrible, according to lola's last minute
allegation—my least failure, evidently.
i remember the first time father sent mama crashing
down the creaky stairs with the thunderbolt from the
back of his hand. i saw everything in slow motion.
i was seven. he was wearing blue jeans.
i remember the only time i saw a ghost. i had just
finished masturbating & i thought he had come to
drag me down to his yellow-light purgatory.
i remember my first open, vulnerable conversation.
it was with the turkey, seventeen minutes before the
house help dragged the blade across
his throat for my birthday.
i remember my ninth grade social studies teacher.
he believed minimalism is the first computational
steps to being agnostic.
i remember when i wrote the first, crappy
draft of this poem. i had just put out the back
porch lights when mama's tremulous
voice told me on the phone that he
was dying of lung cancer.
Commentary
Othuke on "a brief guide to remembering":
In a brief guide to remembering I wanted to document the beauty & burden of the human experience & draw a picture around its connascence of relevance & vulnerability. I have always wanted to write a poem that can capture a feeling of exfoliation— something with a concrete chain of images; something capable of spilling both olives & ash. The bodies in this poem, although still searching for their way in translation, are very much alive with light.
In a brief guide to remembering I wanted to document the beauty & burden of the human experience & draw a picture around its connascence of relevance & vulnerability. I have always wanted to write a poem that can capture a feeling of exfoliation— something with a concrete chain of images; something capable of spilling both olives & ash. The bodies in this poem, although still searching for their way in translation, are very much alive with light.
Biography
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Othuke Umukoro is a poet & playwright from Nigeria. His demons have appeared, or are forthcoming in Sunlight Press, Sprinng Literary Movement, AfricanWriter, Brittle Paper, Echelon Review, Eunoia Review & elsewhere. His debut stage play, Mortuary Encounters, is available here:
https://publish.okadabooks.com/book/about/mortuary_encounters/27566 When bored, he watches “Everybody Hates Chris.” He is on twitter @othukeumukoro19 |
