Nick Makoha's poetic eye bulges out of this debut collection and refuses to be blinked away. The images line up like skittles but fall with the grace of leaves. Extract:
from The Light The city clings like skin to the back of me,/
like summer sweat, my oils mixing/ with the humidity of the night./
Sleep the language I am speaking,/ every move mimicking death./
My body leaves a signature/ in the sheets. I rise; my feet touch the carpet’s canvas/
cooling me slightly. The window spilling moonlight/ into the room. Artificial light born from the TV mimics/
the light of the sky. Voices like my vision, blurred./ My hands snakes to the remote to mute the sound/
that brought me to sleep and in this moment awakens me.