May 25, 2025

by JOEMARIO UMANA

Shame

This morning, I stand before a mirror,

and my father stares back at me. I always thought

I was my mother’s reflection. I am telling this

to a friend, and I don't know why—

perhaps because where I come from, when a child

is good, the child belongs to the father,

but when the child is bad, the child belongs

to the mother. Maybe I’m telling her because

of the hunger in her eyes, pulling me in,

a tide I can’t resist, and my mother's voice

in my head, says do not turn me into

a thing of laughter. I know where I’m from,

and I know the body of shame, how beautiful

she looks, how everyone comes out to gawk,

how she becomes a song in the mouth

of multitudes, a chorus memorised by time,

a moral lesson in households, a story

for griots. And now, with that hunger

in my friend’s eyes swallowing me whole,

like waves hugging my feet before retreating

to sea, I’m letting my mother's voice

undergo apoptosis. I’m leaning into that space

where all that’s alive is desire.