I am thinking of a thousand hills and banana beer and the fast moving low resting dawn breaking clouds which must wake God in the country where He sleeps.
and I have seen Him there cupping black dirt in His hands smoothing out the curves of each valley and rounding off the crest of each hill a thousand times over like lumps in a pillow or my mother's rising bread.
yes, I have seen Him there cupping black dirt in His hands smoothing out the curves of each hip and shoulder rounding off the tips of each finger and toe a million times over slow and steady like love and laughter or the flicker of my father's youth.
and I don't suppose God slept a moment in the spring of '94 when the rain all smelled like salt and Kigali held its breath like a baby in a basket.
and I have seen Him there cupping black dirt in His hands smoothing out the curves of each tiny tomb for the sparrows they cut from the sky too many times over, swift and sharp like winter in the blood or the flutter of a broken wing.
and every time I see Him now He is braiding black feathers and painting justice on the grass where elephants fight on trampled ground at the foot of His bed for tootsie rolls and peanuts.
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