There is poetry in her sultry voice—
In the jingling sound of her bangles
And the mesmerizing sounds of her anklets.
It is here, in her youth
Where her beauty and strength lies

There is poetry in her voice
In the click of her tongue, the sound of her receding footsteps
Her heavy sobs and the fluttering beat of her troubled heart

There is poetry in the widow’s hut
Where women sing wistful songs
With cracked voices, shaved hairs
Like a king who has lost his crown
Like a leper locked away to be his own company.

Just like a slippery lonely road
Where the living gets to speak with the dead
In chants and eulogies
Where darkness becomes a comfort
Where she takes solace in her black attire

There is poetry in a woman’s love
Where flowers bloom, vibrant and sparkle
Unyielding and resilient
Like an Eagle shedding off its skin
Cause it’s nowhere near its place of peace

There is poetry in the great Wodaabe
Where the drummer’s beat draws the heart of beautiful women
Where bright eyes and straight teeth define masculinity—
A poem begun long ago as traditions, buried into native soil
Later regarded as primitive and uncivilized

There is a place where poetry dwells—
It is in unspoken words, silence, and pain
It is here, it is now, taking its form in time, sounds, and space
Where I write an unheard story
That I am beginning to tell.





Photo by Marlon Schmeiski from Pexels