by Helen Ivory | Oct 19, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Absolution Above the quarry, a rain cloud shifts. Scoured against the sky, its body gradually disintegrates, trailing itself out in long wisps which drift towards the earth like hundreds of delicate limbs. Blindly it feels its way over the desolate land-...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 18, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
pop 70s how do I love you if you don’t love you? we are rusty nails flat tires and umbrellas love throws but always misses still let’s assemble love and kisses Gregg Dotoli studied English at Seton Hall University and enjoys living...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 17, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
At Dinner (after a sculpture by Eusebio Sempere) You appear in the hallway, a shimmying fish-skeleton, your bones, tin-foil. We fill each other’s wine glasses. We try to hold a conversation. Turn our backs on you. In the end we switch off the hall...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 15, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Tamar and Amnon for Alfonso García Valdecasas Moon wheeling across the sky, no water on the plain, hot summer now scattering seeds, talk is of tiger and flame. And miles above the roof beams, nerves of metal squeal, a twisted breeze comes blowing...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 14, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
I can feel trouble in my bones In my red, fringed bow ballerinas I can feel surfaces again hardness unyielding to my toes, each pebble conglomerated in the stub slabs of the business district each trip cobble defining my quartier’s streets. This...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 13, 2018 | Prose & Poetry
Clash On nights like this May air strokes skin like lazy fingertips, familiar sounds nonchalantly step through speaker boxes; his voice rough and unsteady hangs comfortably in her air. She remembers she has a husband. Bodies agile against the...
