Her oud walks ahead of her—soft siren song beneath her hijab—
and I follow, like boys do when they’ve been taught
not to live but to survive. We are cartographers of silence,
our feet naming roads that never belonged to us. The streetlamps
do not speak. They stare, as if they know how many times
I’ve died trying to unlearn what was beaten into my father’s son.
There is a mall somewhere behind us, full of mannequins
who remember their names. But this night—this night
is a long corridor of forgettings. She says she lost something.
I say nothing. She turns to me like dusk to the ocean
and says, myself—the word gentle as a bullet
that knows it has nowhere else to go. I want to say, same.
I want to confess that every man I have become
is either apology or myth. That I am the echo of a boy
who once believed softness wouldn’t kill him.
But I have been taught that silence is holier than grief.
So I fold my voice into my body and let it bleed quietly.
She exhales. Kai fa? I pretend I do not hear,
because I am afraid any answer will name me fragile.
Instead, I breathe her oud—its sorrow, its patience,
its strange love—and whisper ina son ku
like a man asking to be forgiven for wanting joy.
A smile rises on her face like a dawn
that knows some nights refuse to end.

© 2026 Joemario Umana