Liz Robbins's poems have what only the very best poems have: a
sturdy toughness undergirding their tenderness. Though the body
spins dervishly-almost blindly- for love and beauty, it must also
accept the jolts of pain, of physical labor. As with the flowering
pear trees in "On the Verge of Spring," we are ever" hopeful, /
hopeless--with [the] smell of sweat suggestive/ of work and of
fear." There's a refreshing honesty in these poems as well as a
tremendous amount of skill with a sensuous musical language. Each
poem is a delight, something to savor. -Nance Van Winckel
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