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Sara's Blog
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Question of Abortion
When does the artist become a murderer,
suffocating her work till it stops gasping for
oxygen? Whose gifts did Emily Dickinson
cremate when she threw pages and pages
of soul into blazes over logs? Where do the
slaughtered truths go? How do we know?
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To show you medicine in Haiti (through a peep hole)
Another Try
I couldn't do it
Warm Rain
My 6-Year Old Creole Instructor
Maternity Ward
Meci de rien.
Landing in Port-au-Prince
Deye Pwobem, Gen Pwobem
Sister
What Comes With An American?
The Question of Abortion
A Poem
About Me
Sara
I can never be the ocean, or even a wave, but I can be a raindrop into a still pond; I can make a little splash from which crests and troughs radiate
View my complete profile