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That Friday Afternoon by Helen Ivory
The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
A Note from the Editor, exclusive to Substack:
Helen Ivory’s second poem in Issue One of The Aftershock Review (£12.99) made me somersault at my desk. That Friday Afternoon accomplishes something extraordinary. It lingers in the way trauma does — how certain memories don’t survive as stories, but as textures worn into the walls and floors of a life lived in extremis.
This poem refuses to shout. It lets the violence reveal itself through small, almost routine details: the cracked windscreen, the plaster dust ground into the quarry tiles. Helen Ivory captures something chilling here — not just an incident, but a whole atmosphere of aftermath and normalisation.
A shattered windscreen becomes a quiet, devastating metaphor:
"but it’s tough to get powder off a black quarry floorif the tiles are unsealed – it just kind of wears in."
The violence doesn’t announce itself; it settles. It seeps into the surfaces of a life, wearing itself in until it becomes part of the everyday landscape. I am proud to publish a poem that knows how harm extends to the very materials we live among.
— Max WallisEditor, The Aftershock Review
That Friday Afternoon
by Helen Ivory | poet | artist
When you commanded me drive you
to the King’s Arms
and I stalled that old car
you knocked into the windscreen
with one, two, three, of your best
and had to call Autoglass to replace it.
You impressed yourself that time;
so many nights in the gym.
Your fists were both immaculate.
The man didn’t do conversation
as he cut away the pinch-weld with a knife.
You helped him, blokes together,
push the screen from the Corsa
one on the driver’s side, one on the passenger’s
and marvelled how easy it was.
Then the new one went in without any effort
and soon you were writing a cheque.
The wall too, was repaired, no hassle –
there was always fresh plasterboard stacked in the hall.
I swept up the gypsum with a dustpan and brush
but it’s tough to get powder off a black quarry floor
if the tiles are unsealed – it just kind of wears in.
Thanks for reading The Aftershock Review! This post is public so feel free to share it.
Helen Ivory is a poet and visual artist. She edits IS&T and teaches for Arvon. Her six Bloodaxe collections include Waiting for Bluebeard, which centres on domestic abuse, and Constructing a Witch (2024), which is a PBS Winter Recommendation. She won a Cholmondeley Award from the Society of Authors in 2024.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe
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By Max Wallis' Daily Aftershock Writing Prompts (The Aftershock Review)The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
A Note from the Editor, exclusive to Substack:
Helen Ivory’s second poem in Issue One of The Aftershock Review (£12.99) made me somersault at my desk. That Friday Afternoon accomplishes something extraordinary. It lingers in the way trauma does — how certain memories don’t survive as stories, but as textures worn into the walls and floors of a life lived in extremis.
This poem refuses to shout. It lets the violence reveal itself through small, almost routine details: the cracked windscreen, the plaster dust ground into the quarry tiles. Helen Ivory captures something chilling here — not just an incident, but a whole atmosphere of aftermath and normalisation.
A shattered windscreen becomes a quiet, devastating metaphor:
"but it’s tough to get powder off a black quarry floorif the tiles are unsealed – it just kind of wears in."
The violence doesn’t announce itself; it settles. It seeps into the surfaces of a life, wearing itself in until it becomes part of the everyday landscape. I am proud to publish a poem that knows how harm extends to the very materials we live among.
— Max WallisEditor, The Aftershock Review
That Friday Afternoon
by Helen Ivory | poet | artist
When you commanded me drive you
to the King’s Arms
and I stalled that old car
you knocked into the windscreen
with one, two, three, of your best
and had to call Autoglass to replace it.
You impressed yourself that time;
so many nights in the gym.
Your fists were both immaculate.
The man didn’t do conversation
as he cut away the pinch-weld with a knife.
You helped him, blokes together,
push the screen from the Corsa
one on the driver’s side, one on the passenger’s
and marvelled how easy it was.
Then the new one went in without any effort
and soon you were writing a cheque.
The wall too, was repaired, no hassle –
there was always fresh plasterboard stacked in the hall.
I swept up the gypsum with a dustpan and brush
but it’s tough to get powder off a black quarry floor
if the tiles are unsealed – it just kind of wears in.
Thanks for reading The Aftershock Review! This post is public so feel free to share it.
Helen Ivory is a poet and visual artist. She edits IS&T and teaches for Arvon. Her six Bloodaxe collections include Waiting for Bluebeard, which centres on domestic abuse, and Constructing a Witch (2024), which is a PBS Winter Recommendation. She won a Cholmondeley Award from the Society of Authors in 2024.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe