There are places I inhabit,
that exist within me
where I can imagine living,
intend to live, have lived
have dreamt about
-or sensed.
There are men in turquoise cloaks
stooped over stews of melon seed and okra,
palm-covered entrances
and caves lined with shells,
there are so many places: ports and mountain hideaways,
jagged cliffs that overhang.
It seems, sometimes, as if I span these places,
am forever overwhelmed, desirous,
as if landing for an hour at Lagos airport
wanting to discover
everything.
I find places within places
on the way home,
the wind brings news to me
of oceans,
and leaves me wanting elsewhere.
This very street has been
a thousand streets to me,
imprints itself repeatedly,
my footsteps join past footsteps
retrace themselves.
I grow incredibly attached to things:
roots, the changing sculptures
of trees, this country seen from overhead
its ancient streets that glaze at night
cast streaks that take me back.
It is as if I could gorge myself,
the university courtyards glimpsed
in perfect symmetry,
the air as if finely scattered
with the dust of polished diamonds.
And then here, my own room,
above my bookcase silhouette,
cars passing their searchlights
across my dreams and
the shadows of my flowers.
Writing 4 Life 