Purple Persephone
Stomach aches and city colds
late journeys home
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
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