top of page

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.