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

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