by Michael Akuchie Nikolai Artamonov I leave open the windows so both palms of mine assemble the breeze for a carrying. My mouth becomes a cabinet of prayers. These hands form twin handles & God, when the wind slams into them, they shake. A bible nests in the night table, so much of its innards are cramped in the chalet of my eyes. Often, our stares cross paths so my fingers listen to the bible’s breathing through a rest on its frame. For the next stretch of minutes, I break