"Grasshopper" by Courtenay Schembri Gray

Within the cocktail of sound, the only thing I hear is a car tyre grinding my bones into a fine powder. 

To be exhaled by rigid accountants, while my spirit flounders like a shy oracle.

They won’t grant me an allowance, but scold me when I ask to wear their skin for just one sultry evening; o’ how they are terrified I will run away with it.

Into the night with the silk sarong that keeps their nose in every dandelion pie. 

Signed and scored by the unguis of Lucifer. 

Their lacerations are no match for me: I am a thoroughbred, off the latch and wolfing the mint residue of a Grasshopper from the stony cone bowl gifted to me by truth.

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