Poetry: Luna on the Grass

Luna on the Grass

Upon black candles, I will wish for a cold heart. 

I am stuck between longevity and the urge to burn. 

This tandem of grief, like a fork, pulls me apart.

 

I am the bad rump flopping about a horse cart. 

The wombed lotus must find a way to return.

Upon black candles, I will wish for a cold heart.

 

Red is the blood that runs down this treacle tart; 

a guilt borne of a greenhouse overgrown with fern.

This tandem of grief, like a fork, pulls me apart.

 

A weight sits on my chest, greater than an Ox heart.

Time reduced to ash pellets for a wooden urn. 

Upon black candles, I will wish for a cold heart.

 

I hold back the flood; brought it to a fine art. 

They know me a cruel silkworm, a victim to yearn.

This tandem of grief, like a fork, pulls me apart.

 

I will not go as one, interred á la carte;

a mad descent into the boneyard as a charred auburn. 

Upon black candles, I will wish for a cold heart.

This tandem of grief, like a fork, pulls me apart.

Courtenay Schembri Gray is the author of four poetry collections, the latest being THE MAGGOT ON MAPLE STREET (Anxiety Press). Her work has appeared in journals such as The Bolton Review and CAROUSEL. She resides in the North of England. Keep up with her on Twitter (@courtenaywrites) / https://themaplemoon.substack.com