Zakiyyah Dzukogi
I have suffuse with colour
Words within a thin voice
Sizzled by the cinnamon
Dense under my tongue
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We may be pawns
In our own parcel
Of today’s maybe, cold dreams and swears
And as glasses
We break into poems
Like an already cracked egg
Doffed off from a wailing flower
Give a smack to tomorrow’s scrabble
Who gleams like a rosy-coloured plate
In the half of a purple night
Between the teeth of the earliest mornings
Are frowns we left
In the middle of the night
Fumes that stink
Only in the mornings
If not we heard voices
When the doors twitched
We wouldn’t have known
the demons in our paintings
are real.
…………………
The Hull Scribbler 