by Helen Ivory | Mar 12, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Boy Out picking gooseberries her fingers encased with possibility my mother goes. Beneath her striped shirt she carries in her small frame this thing called boy. Neither short nor tall, a pumpkin seed. Globe boy, floating in Chinese boxes. He...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 10, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Mother As its representative on earth she sets the lemon meringue onto the cloth – its perfect roundness and snowy peaks. She divides it up with the cake knife, cuts through the sweet crust into the bright tartiness beneath....
by Helen Ivory | Mar 9, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Busy at the office It’s wet. The car’s stopped in a layby. Dad’s left on the engine. The wipers go backwards and forwards. We’re under a tree, it’s windy; the rain seems to stop and then it’s loud again. Steam from Mum’s thermos means we...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 8, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Sister: A passing through, a revisiting, a pack carrier, a ship’s hold that exactly fits your past, a hide, a shelter, the mouth empty of cadence, how vowels fall soft like meadow grass and speech smells of green, green, green. Julia Webb has an...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 7, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
Being Cat First of all, you can’t think clearly: illogic the permanent eclipse of your dark mind; cause and effect as distantly unconnected as, say, Coventry and Calvary. In your field there are no Venn diagrams, and if all men are mortal, and...
by Helen Ivory | Mar 6, 2013 | Prose & Poetry
The Edge Poppy, wrapped in a red blanket, fights through the raging storm that has taken her husband. In her shattered mind, she swallows every mouthful of Kai’s breakfast. Yesterday, they had argued across the table as the sun rose; there...
