“The Maggot on Maple Street” by Courtenay Schembri Gray

Shaken from my sleep

by yellow taxi dreams;

toothpaste is my cork,

stopping the wine from

sloshing around the great

caboose that is I, way off

the wagon, face down in

the sludge. Moontime

butter shoots me in the

eye, hot syrup; that sticky

pudding, fat with guilt and

irony. O’ how I fabricate

the lowest despair, the

deadliest joy, finer than lace,

as impure as rendition. Swear

me a fishwife, an earwig, a

flotsam woodlouse with but

a cube of cheese to stay afloat.

I must get back to the desk, to

the coffee rings and grassy knolls.

To the looking glass, without delay

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