By Timi Sanni
You followed me through the needle eye of a dark, pine forest
and I emerged, as a doe—bright and spotless—on the other side.
What is this if not a miracle? That You led a man, like a
man leads a horse, to the river, and before he can dig his shoes
into the muddy riverside earth, before he can grimace into that
familiar idiom, to say God, you led me here, but I’m not drinking
from this carnivorous water, there’s a push, light as the touch
of a zephyr in his heart, & there are two people falling, this man
and You, into the mouth of the roaring water. & this is to say
You are with a man even on the darkest nights, to say, You live
closer to him than his aorta, than the blood in his blessed veins.
Once, in the shadow of a giant, I trembled. Once, in the belly
of a slave ship, I quaked. But each time, you spelled my name
in its ancient letters —a reassurance of triumph, and led me
unscathed, through the ruins of the fickle disaster. This life You
have given me is, again, a miracle. So take this poem, God, as an
offering of thanks. In every crevice of this body You know so well
is a bone, joint, sinew, all singing Your praises as a melody.