by Helen Ivory | Oct 16, 2026 | Featured, Poetry
Flintinge When my dad was a boy, his parents brought him into the fields. As the whole town picked sugar beets, their breath hugged furrows in pre-dawn darkness. I think of the tug he was taught, the sound of roots wrested from the earth cold in a...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 15, 2026 | Featured, Poetry
minding eggs a line of hanging hooks bent us into the dining hall where we ate like birds all girls minding eggs a school project for cracking up blue girl brown tray beige egg empty locker room jumper stretched over knees navy wool egg...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 14, 2026 | Featured, Poetry
My Dead He reads aloud about visiting the Underworld in dreams, seeing his dead again. Through the big window behind him there’s a flowerbed and some long grass; a road with not much traffic; and on the far side a strip of whins and conifer trees...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 13, 2026 | Featured, Poetry
Magic Pennies My dad was a magician. He could make a penny disappear with a twist of his wrist just vanish in thin air to pluck it later from your ear or nose. People laughed when dad did that. He’d put a matchstick in the centre of a clean white...
by Helen Ivory | Oct 12, 2026 | Featured, Poetry
Shared Attic A key on a short string unlocks a metal door to an unlit stair, steep wooden steps, a turn at the top where you can’t see back. We’re in The Gods. A warren on the right, murk-bound filaments of light strike coal briquettes, a broom...
