by Helen Ivory | Jun 2, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
We turned a corner Still I notice the white mole above your lip. Shallow we breathe in leather yew leaves. Branches slackened by tomorrow’s dew. Like Cross Street is a steam room and we are clean white shrouding towels shawled around each others’...
by Helen Ivory | Jun 1, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Tag He arrived with a Christian name stitched in place, forwards and backwards down each folded-back end. On the first day the other boys and girls tore it off, taking the surrounding cloth along. No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw...
by Helen Ivory | May 20, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
/ on the days / blood rushes at the corner of a nail / you cannot keep your jumper off the door handle / table tackles leg / expect the bruise in two days’ time / pansies nodding in speckles of rain / dish en route from dishwasher to shelf thinks...
by Helen Ivory | May 19, 2025 | Featured, Poetry
Then tragedy makes children of us all and in that last moment the dead shrug, shake off their boots, shuffle off jackets and shirts, watch astounded as their dresses grow and drop to their feet. Their bags, their glasses, car keys and phones...
by Helen Ivory | May 18, 2025 | Featured, Prose
What Happens After the Aftershock? In February 2024, I took an Uber to a bridge in London. I was planning to die. Instead, I got out and walked to St Paul’s, where I was detained and sectioned. I remember the shame. The dizziness. I remember thinking I’d...
