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Barbara Robidoux



Their waters now unlivable, pilot whales beach themselves in

great numbers along the eastern shores—

they will return to live on the land

as they did in the old times.

Winter never came to New England,

we had to suck the sap

from maple trees

with vacuums.

A polar bears dies from lack of ice,

then lack of food.

Glaciers shrink, ocean waters warm. We

have melted the poles of the planet.

In winter off Nantucket Island

bottle-nosed dolphins circle the harbor

instead of swimming the deep waters to migrate south.

An old woman stands on the shore

and watches, then tells no one:

“They have come for me.”

Without looking back,

she walks into the frigid water.

In the mountains pines and aspens

are heaving great sighs.

I walk and listen to tall trees.

My sparrow fingers collect their seeds in

case they too will

move away.


The antelope are strange people…They are beautiful to look at, and yet they are tricky. We do not trust them. They appear and disappear; they are like shadows on the plains. Because of their great beauty, young men sometimes follow antelope and are lost forever. Even if those foolish ones find themselves and return, they are never right again in their heads.- Pretty Shield Medicine Woman of the Crows


At dusk along highway 16

towards the pueblo of Cochiti

a small herd of antelope grazes

in the flatlands

beside the road.


They have come down from the mountains

as if to allow us to see them

so we can know their wildness,

so we might remember

the miracle of fresh grass

in a desert field

after a winter of good snow.


Darkness descends. The herd vanishes.

I try to follow them but they are too fast.

In the village cedar and pinon smoke rises then settles in the old


An old woman, her hair hangs braided to her waist, invites me to

   visit in her small adobe home.

We sit by her fire and talk. Her face is cut deep with wrinkles and her

   dark eyes shine.

She smiles when she hears the antelope have returned.

“I have something,” she tells me. “A recipe for antelope stew. This is medicine. Even when we butcher them, there is a sweetness that comes out of them and fills the air.”



The earth shakes. How many times can I say I love you? I


pull on a pair of wool socks, slide under the covers.


Cat gently pushes into my thigh.


TV News reports massive earthquake in Mexico, Popo erupts.



Remnants of an ancient Aztec temple Ehecatl rise up.


under a shopping mall in Mexico city.                          Popo erupts.


The curandera tells me the earth’s umbilical cord is


going back to the moon.


“Align yourself with the good winds.”


Puerto Rico O! Puerto Rico,


Maria has ravaged you.

Three million without food and water.                    Powerless.


A dead cow hangs from the top of a broken telephone pole,


placed there by the  winds.


Bees are dying. They have no food.


The storm left no flowers.


I tell you for the thousandth time “I love you.”


This is not the end, not yet.

-from The Storm Left no Flowers (Finishing Line Press 2018), selected by Spring 2022 Guest Editor, CMarie Fuhrman 

Barbara Robidoux is a Cherokee (tsalagi), Italian, and Scottish writer. She has worked as a fish cutter, waitress, cook, truck farmer, and teacher. She was born and raised on the east coast. She lived in rural Maine and Provincetown, MA before moving to Santa Fe 17 years ago. Her poetry has been widely published in anthologies nationwide. She has published two full length books of poetry, Waiting for Rain and The Storm Left No Flowers, a chapbook, Stirring Sorrow Into Soup (Floodgate Poetry Series Volume 7) and a collection of short stories, Sweetgrass Burning: Stories From The Rez. She has been awarded a NM Discovery Award and a fellowship at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, MA.


Victoria Chang


Victoria Chang

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