Mary Cresswell: Three Ghazals
April 29, 2015TW Poetry Spotlight
No seagulls are liars.
No seagulls are liars.
We are not alone in our suffering, no matter how shocking or unusual our particular circumstances.
Horton can’t hear me. I’m on the dandelion he tramples while looking for his Whos.
The currency of movements—passion, spirit, creativity, the willingness to spend our bodies—is the only alternative.
An array of women’s voices challenge what counts as environmental literature.
This is not a story in your mind. You were really that girl. She was already you.
My son, my dear son, was desperately ill, and there was no satisfactory explanation to be found.