There’s plenty that poetry cannot do, but the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do. — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“In her blue dress, she's just a bit of that sky, just a blank bit fallen into the meadow.” — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“ Apology I didn't mean to say so much to you. I should have thought to let the evening end by looking at the… — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a… — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“Mary tells herself that if only she could have a child she could carry around like an extra lung, the emptiness inside her would… — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“But if I were this thing, my mind a thousand times smaller than my wings, if my fluorescent blue flutter finally stumbled into the… — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“I sit winding blue tape around my wrists to keep my hands from falling.” — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“...though she cannot make cannot make the shuddering lines stay put.” — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
“The Troubadours Etc." Just for this evening, let's not mock them. Not their curtsies or cross-garters or ever-recurring pepper trees in their gardens promising,… — Mary Szybist Copy Share Image
