by Helen Ivory | Sep 17, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Passchendaele No doubt the morale of the German army was shaken by Passchendaele. It is unlikely the morale of the British army was much improved. AJP Taylor We share the same wet pitch: its pocks, its hollowed plains of wretched brown. We are the two bald men with...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 16, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Infidelity Sweet Jesus, Matt swears, and collapses on the bed. Somewhere—she can’t remember where—she’d read sex puts men to sleep but wakes women up. She lies, thoughts distinct. Arms behind her head. His breath is sluggish. She considers...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 15, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Ketchup on Okra A quaint southern diner, throwback to the 50s. Football and country music star posters dotted the walls. I splashed ketchup on fried okra. You were horrified, couldn’t believe it. No one does things like that you said. Here in...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 14, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Silly Shoes I rushed home from work for him I went totally berserk for him I wore silly shoes for him I sat and had the blues for him I laughed at all his jokes for him I ignored all other blokes for him I went with the flow for him I stopped...
by Helen Ivory | Sep 13, 2014 | Prose & Poetry
Walk Low Walk low in case I forget the roots of my deliverance. Walk low so my head knows it is human, and my heart touches daily the earth I will return to. Walk low in days of joy, in hours toil. Walk low when leaping over burning fields, into a...
