Two Poems

Two Poems

  Like a violin wishing it were a piano.     Like a cirrus cloud afraid of heights. Like a Nobel scientist unsure of the science.   Like a barn   with hay-fever. Like a lake afraid of being too...

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GMR

Recent Posts

Mystery, Menace, and Early Sorrow

The dolls never slept.  They stayed wide eyed and unblinking on their shelf in my small, overheated room, watching me watch the man and woman in the apartment across the way. As a child with insomnia, I was wide eyed, too, although I would have preferred sleep....

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Green Mountains Review, based at Johnson State College in Vermont, is a biannual, award-winning literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, literary essays, interviews, and book reviews by both well-known writers and promising newcomers.

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The Empty Space in Front of Your Hand

The Empty Space in Front of Your Hand

Michel was an old and charming man as only an old and charming painter in a Parisian atelier can be. He was our neighbor. Whenever we ran into each other in the courtyard and spoke, I let him touch my hands and in the summer even my bare shoulders. This was a huge thing for me, although I didn’t know at the time whether it meant a compromise or a victory. Michel was also my second novel read more
Vespers

Vespers

I’m not sure what it is about this place that cinches my gut shut whenever I’m here. Maybe it’s the history. 1906, Loma Prieta, the Oakland Hills—even the whole dot-com business. read more
Graceline

Graceline

Somewhere along the line you make a few meetings, pay a few bills, show up to work on time, and think you deserve more. Somewhere along the line you can’t recognize the men crowded in wheelchairs and grocery carts below the overpass that gets you where you need to go....

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Orlando

Orlando

In memory of last week's shooting, Orlando-based writer Nathan Holic presents the following graphic memoirs. read more
Three Poems

Three Poems

They’re feeding while we sleep. Conifers, acorns, sweet clover. Crepuscular. They must tell each other stories in whatever tongue they speak. Each fawn makes its own distinct bleat. Does the mouth makes a sound for gun, arrow, berry, or flee? Arrested between the bramble and the suburban street read more
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