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Bliss in bottle

By Zakiyyah Dzukogi From Issue No. 8

on days night glides down in sun, the air crooks in winter, the cloud crams our space, till a chick grows a tooth. on nights the tongue in our mouths thaws like a botched-up pastry, that, that fills our noses slips in the shawl of a baked fire. once beside a stream in our bodies, a full drub loosed its lips in our numbed ears. we weaved words in the pale evenings of a blended song and bleached our nights, our floor tiled in gingered diamonds, our bliss in bottle.

About Zakiyyah Dzukogi More From Issue No. 8