this is an onion of a problem; a lazy layer of
communes and jazzy hills, interred into the singed silk.
I navigate the world like a great, ominous
chessboard, all of the pieces dancing in lanky harmony.
vying for the edge of the world, emaciated, lusting
after warm bread, lightly dipped in olive oil.
we mush our faces in the blood of stockbrokers,
manoeuvring the iron-like tabs with forked tongues.
a balsamic glaze defines your flaws, exposing
them—your secrets can no longer be protected by a darkroom.
I wanted the love I saw in the magazines, but I’m
tasked with a blade, ignorant to its own strength.
By Courtenay Shembri Gray