An avid introvert, full-time carbon-based life-form & aspiring himbo, Ashley Cline is the author of four chapbooks of poetry: & watch how easily the jaw sings of god (Glass Poetry Press, 2021), electric infinities (Variant Lit, 2023), cowabungaly yours at the end of the world (Gutslut Press, 2023), & loading a new continent (Glass Poetry Press, 2025). A two-time Pushcart nominee & Best of the Net 2020 finalist, her best at all-you-can-eat sushi is 5 rolls in 11 minutes.
March 5, 2025
Ashley Cline
on Mexico’s Caribbean coast, mountains of seaweed grow
label it miracle,
this tilt of earth.
your breath against my ear —
an act of creation.
as in: i am honeysuckle-lunged
& waiting, fingers ripe with salt.
label it miracle: the way
an American goldfinch sits
among a field of dandelions —
yellow is as yellow does.
label it miracle, & a surefooted
sapling takes root in the stump
of an old, felled tree.
& i cannot write a better poem
than that which already exists.
believe me: i’ve tried.
believe me —
there is a patch of wildflowers
off the highway that is
the most perfect garden
you will ever see.
“In writing this piece, I was reminded of an incredibly simple truth. One which occasionally gets shuffled from view and — when said out loud — even borders on the cliché and cringe, but remains true all the same. Poetry is everywhere. It’s the American goldfinch I watched after a walk with my dog, it’s the bit of city planning that leaves some feral flora blooming by the highway; it’s the headline “On Mexico’s Caribbean coast, mountains of seaweed grow.” This poem is really just a series of vignettes. Such small moments that are very real and, I assume one could argue, very mundane — and I love her all the more for it.
The title, “On Mexico’s Caribbean coast, mountains of seaweed grow,” is taken from an article of the same name, written by Mark Stevenson (AP News, Aug. 30, 2022).
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published weekly by Glass Poetry Press.
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