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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
Current Issue
19 Feb 2024

That was Father—a storm in a drought, a comet in the night. Acting first, thinking later, carried on not by foresight, but on luck’s slippery feet. And so we were not as surprised as we should have been when, one warm night in our tenth year on the mountain, Father showed us the flying machine.
The first time I saw stone and Bone in ocean
This is it. This is the decision that keeps you up at night.
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