Abraham was the father of Isaac*

*and a wild donkey of a man before him. i know the promise well; descendants as many as the stars—day-to-day, i wonder about a cosmos where i am ishmael instead of isaac. where i shine like an asterisk in a sunless sky. where my existence is a blackhead to the whitepaper of pharisees, a footnote to perfection, a blot upon my father’s flawless skin. 

a dark star myself, i’d learn to stargaze without him. for instance, did you know the milky way and the single mother intersect at the cornerstore? i know many an asterisk there, forming constellations via star crunch and cosmic brownies. at the checkout counter, i twinkle among them, spending my quarters on artificial flavors and colorings, still not understanding how we can lighten hades and darken the cosmos at the same time—

it turns out, in neither universe is my father a stargazer. thankfully, dusty photo albums make great telescopes, and makeshift lessons from tough questions train my eye. in the sunless sky, i see my long-lost half-sister. what do astronomers call a constellation of asterisks?

ISAAC AKANMU

Isaac Akanmu is a Nigerian American from Staten Island, New York. Now living in Charlotte, North Carolina, Isaac was the recipient of the 2023 Charlotte GoodLit Fellowship. His poetry chapbook, not belonging anywhere (2022), is available from Bottlecap Press. His words also appear in Jellyfish Review, Posit Journal, Olney Magazine, and elsewhere. Connect with Isaac at isaacakanmu.com and on social media (@insteadofisaac).