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Night Ghazal

I boil night on the stove; soak it until it's thoroughly done, black.
We drink it like tea, unspeaking—swallow its moths, distant suns, black.

Through the telescope's silver barrel, litter of white stars
already dead. They glitter like shrapnel. The sky, gun-black.

The blood comes and comes; I spend all night in the tub,
water running. It pours from me: gush of child undone. Black.

I tell him, fill my darkest places. My fingers grip too hard,
leave small moons along his back. The bruises come, black.

Dream, small death. I become a phantom above the bed.
Sleep, the simpler twin. The same eyes closing. The same gone black.

Leila Chatti

Gulf Coast

Summer/Fall 2017

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