by Helen Ivory | Jun 9, 2017 | Prose & Poetry
Theft One night while my grandmother sleeps he slips in, through a window that isn’t quite closed, through her dreams. As if he senses her loneliness he gives her his heart, won’t leave but words go missing, memories migrate—...
by Helen Ivory | Jun 8, 2017 | Prose & Poetry
The folks who live on the hill Greenfinch flock between you and the sun turning east west east again, light through a bee’s wing. Folds of lily-fat smother the pond and the garlic’s big as apples. The greenhouse sweats tomato beads. Picnic...
by Helen Ivory | Jun 7, 2017 | Prose & Poetry
Sunday, Aberdeen Waking from our final raucous night, there are seagulls, the aftermath of gin, sharp shafts of light scraping across the floor and here I am, shipwrecked, strand-strewn, flotsam sicked up from the seabed. Queasily the waves heave, hurling over...
by Helen Ivory | Jun 6, 2017 | Prose & Poetry
Snapped Like the ulna cracked by a boy from a tree or a wishbone pulled between two thumbs I snapped my mind at half past three The frantic flowers of the Persian rugs spliced my brain with their greens and blues like a wishbone pulled between two thumbs My...
by Helen Ivory | Jun 5, 2017 | Prose & Poetry
Black earth woods there is a man in the woodpile. wearing the uniform of the ordinary. a hat and a belt. Rolled in wood, the cold metal of the car boot is pressed into my mulchy flesh. I bark. I can do it, if you ask. Stacked bark, bark is my resistance....
