Purple Persephone

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