by Helen Ivory | Feb 4, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
A Pale Fire of Roses It’s a child’s game: knock on the door and run away. Each time she looked out, she couldn’t see who’d knocked. Reporting it felt foolish: it’s only a knock on the door. Fourth time and...
by Helen Ivory | Feb 3, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
True Lies My bro’s so good at dying, he shakes this way and that, dancing in the shrapnel. Mama shouts play nice so we bundle into the sofa bed, bodies clumsily naive. Arnie’s on the telly, a CIA agent, a body of nothing but muscle and man,...
by Helen Ivory | Feb 2, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
How Inferiority Complex Talks to A Writer Whose Mother Tongue is Urdu I wake up at 7 am, sleep again for two hours, get up at 9 am to finally work, open my laptop, remind myself, no big deal, it’s a day, after all, it will pass. Boss sends a...
by Helen Ivory | Feb 1, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
The inventor’s wife predicts a storm Each coming storm, I’m alone, love. I take to bed as my blood constricts, is corseted by whalebone. I blot the sky with clouds of my own invention and watch the day run like a shawl’s pulled thread,...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 31, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
The Stack We hold our dead like chairs hold chairs further and further off the floor until one holds no more. Tristan Moss lives in York with his partner and two youngish children. He has recently had poems published in London...
by Helen Ivory | Jan 30, 2022 | Featured, Poetry
Sister Death Sits on the Back of the Settee It shouldn’t be such a surprise. She knew me better than most people, after all. So cosy. And yes, in the womb I gobbled her up and thought I’d won. But you forget such things. Behind me like a pantomime...
