The Sleep Room
They shoot me up with
druggie fixes; the black
dawn itching to shock.
Boy, where have you
gone? I feel the static
of your spirit, but I
can't reach out and
touch it. Those are
gone with the sticky
rice he made me before
he zapped, snapped, and
capped me. tobacco wasps
burn and yearn; my one
supper in this plastic lie. If
only to be better, might I.
I, Libertine
Red Camellia
Did you die by the rope,
or was it fate?
Neither a root nor stem, it was
always up to them to supply a solution
to your problem of ten.
Cinnamon rust on the fetid paper
where your eulogy was spilled,
little could be done about
the flickering lights, the cracked coffin,
or the broken-down hearse.
I asked the priest for a grass cutter, but
all he had was a silver spoon.
A useless weapon, for your heart was
ground into livestock, and
the plant that swaddled you bore
a red camellia; a talking head
who played chess with the dead.
A game that never ends,
naked; afraid of what comes next.
Author Bio: Courtenay Schembri Gray is a writer from the North of England. She is 1/4 Maltese, and happened to find herself hit by a car when she was eleven. You’ll find her work in an array of journals such as A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Misery Tourism, Expat Press, Rejection Letters, Hobart, Bath Flash Fiction, and many more. She will often post on her blog: www.courtenayscorner.com
Twitter: @courtenaywrites
Instagram: @courtenaywrites
A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Courtenay S. Gray
Fevers of the Mind 