There's A God Called Poetry

I hear him in unexpected places

I hear him in the thudding of the stiletto down the hall

In the noisy chatter of market women

And in the croaking of toads at night

I hear him in the boom of my father’s voice

(The voice he preserves for his reprimands)

I hear him in the calls of the groundnut seller

In the screeching of the tires on the pavement

                        

I hear Him in the last cry of the slaughtered goat

In the sudden yelp of the sleeping child

Hear him when the mortar hits the pestle

In the whistles of the laborers

In the jingling of bicycle bells

And in the shrill niggling of my mother’s complaint

He is in the eyes of the poor beggar knocking at my windscreen

In the angry scorn of the lady

Bespattered with mud by a careless motorist

                        

I see him in the shivering of the leaves

And in the unfurling of petals

I catch sight of him when my cat licks her paws       

In the swaying of the beaded waist of the dancer

He is in the shy twinkling of fireflies

In the missing tooth of my younger sister

In my dog scratching her ears

And in my grandmother picking her tooth

I feel him on my chapped lips on a harmattan morning

Feel him as the rain hits my face

In the scalding of my tongue when I taste hot food

In the hands of a lover at my waist

In the gentle kicking of the fetus

I hide from him

Yet He pursues

I hide my face between my legs

To escape him

Yet I smell him

There’s a God called Poetry

I smell him when I walk past the bakery

In the tickle of my armpit in a hot afternoon

In the wizened touch of my grandpa

In the twittering of a thousand birds

And in the rushing of a mighty wind