Literary Vegan

Seven years of not close enough: of lust embroidered   buttons, your bristled cheeks ruby flush with the me you can't have; you would shiver, King. Now you act like you don't remember anything, glare with impatience at the goblet you drank from, turning my bones pewter. Did you taste your wine, notes of clove while lifting your hand, a sign for another? My eyes flash silver, teeth clenched from the edge.  I am everything you wanted to undress, except the present tense. C. LJ Ireton, 2025

Stomach aches and city colds  late journeys home I'm just pushing past.  I speak to the pale pigeons with the brown stripes, put cinnamon in my tea to stir into my mind  but it's foggy and unfulfilled. I put the biggest jumper on to give me a hiding place. I read medieval stories in a corner: courts with no lights. You bring me purple carnations  that are more electric  than the last few days together; like neon lipstick stains on my glass time. I stand outside in the white storm rain taps with my flowers  they are a blood and blue riot,  tissue fire — trying to describe them is like writing Persephone's diary... I drink curiosity and they drain the vase. C. LJ Ireton 2025

My cats sleep like candy swirl lollipops, smiling — warm-blooded cloud Sabbaths you can see. They are rest. I sense the divine, I do — How can any serenity that sweet not be?  C. LJ Ireton 2025

Some kind of summer has appeared past the equinox. The sun returns like a psychotherapist ready to listen, so I tell him I'm tired of people with power not helping people. Rigid grips of control. A flock of pigeons flit South, North, South — with indecision or design  I don't know. But it's beautiful. Underwing grey turns holographic in the sun's highlight.  They tell me they are never alone.  The relief. I am so relieved that there are patterns of the natural world still untouched.  That you can look up and find a yes, stretching soft.  C. LJ Ireton 2025

I cried under the too-bright lights. Frustration had fizzed in my blood, visceral, for hours  and undone obsessions still hovered in my mind — reality fringed with make-believe — twice the sight, twice the energy. But I have done this before, so I know  that salt soldiers win  by breaking down the door to let the self-talk in — except it is not self-talk, it is what anyone who knows you, beyond your skin, would say:  Look how you carried the ghosts, navigated through  chaos,  then wiped them from your face. Steel can be soft, your soul supple. Tears; imagination-soaked drops and your realist self. I see all your eyelashes sparkle with and it's a strength; stretching under the lights. C. LJ Ireton 2025

When you are young your colour choices and plot lines are marvelled at  whiskers, pink stars  mermaid hamsters. As an adult they are not appropriate  for the office things are done  this way, in shoes and documents. I want to pull the roof off  and pour glitter in your tea. Teal hearts, stay true to your flower crowns and fins — your worlds are never-ending. C. LJ Ireton 2025