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Torn from the mountainside
of the woman's voice.
Trans-Mountain with its

bands of cold blue.
Broken Spanish
I wore wild hair with

naked skin
Bone cold
I knew the transplant
    of the Weeping

She may seek you
and lose you, but won't you go

When she loses her tormenta of ghost-roses?



Mary Robles is from El Paso, Texas, and was the recipient of a Creative Workforce Fellowship from the Community Partnership for Arts and Culture in Cleveland, Ohio. Robles was a featured reader in The Emily Dickinson Museum’s “Phosphorescence” reading series, and her writing has been published in The Rio Grande Review, Pinwheel, Salt Hill Journal, Glass Mountain, and is forthcoming in Luna Luna Magazine. Her website is maryroblespoetry.wordpress.com.
Current Issue
21 Sep 2022

There is little more inspirational than a writer who devotes her talents to the work of others.
I was twelve when my mother was born. Twelve or thereabouts. If I’d been older, I could have said things like I never wanted to be a daughter; I don’t have a filial bone in my body. Relatives could have tilted their heads at me, insisting I’d change my mind. But I was twelve so I said nothing. I had no relatives.
a few miles from the fallout zone. / You double-check the index card
Unripe morning / cut open too soon
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Strange Horizons
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