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