Belemnite

Belemnite

Red lake of salt, crumbling edge of pus, far border of tender flesh / I tread around the bloody eye, daring the old impulse to jump / Saturday morning, the wound spills

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GMR

 

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Putting Food By

The achingly red Roma tomatoes / fill the bleached porcelain sink / like the bulbous detritus of summer. / The remnants of seed and skin / collide and float broken and hollow.

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The Somnambulist

Past the coffee table, its treacherous / corners; around the hushed ottoman; / pause in front of the flickering flat screen / as if I’d stepped right out of it. My family gapes.

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Three Poems

A quiet to these fields we called our place, / could almost hear the springs refeeding ponds, / fracked and gone with the deer and fox and grouse / thanks to the drilling’s thunder in the ground.

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Green Mountains Review, based at Northern Vermont University, is an annual, 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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Myriad Selves

Myriad Selves

The enormous collage, Jheri Now, Curl Later, by L.A. artist Mark Bradford has been a part of the Brooklyn Museum’s permanent collection for over fifteen years. My love affair and subsequent fixation with Bradford’s work began in the year 2004, during an early iteration of the museum’s First Saturday program

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Five Poems

Five Poems

Waking from a troubled sleep, I turned / and asked my wife what time it was. / Who are you? she asked. Your husband, / I said. I eat grapefruit, repair the washer. / You’re not my husband, she said. Yes, / I am, I said. If you’re my husband, / then who prepares the coffee? I do, I said, / every morning. And the glass bottles:

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Two Poems

Two Poems

And there you were, elegant and engaging, though not / with the people around you, more with the air of the room, / an intimacy between you that I sensed as I watched

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Recasting the Sonnet: Review of Anna Maria Hong’s Age of Glass

Recasting the Sonnet: Review of Anna Maria Hong’s Age of Glass

The sonnet is inexhaustible. Magnetic, mesmerizing, bewitching, nearly every poet is drawn to the form at some point in their career, whether they long to write the perfect sonnet, the Shakespearean, Petrarchan or Spenserian, or they desire to break the form, queer it, manipulate it, celebrate its mutability; they want to discover what magic can happen within those fourteen lines.

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THE EFFECTS OF ALBRECHT DÜRER’S ETCHING ‘JEROME IN THE WILDERNESS’ ON ACUTE RESIDENTIAL, BEHAVIORAL HEALTH EMPLOYMENT

THE EFFECTS OF ALBRECHT DÜRER’S ETCHING ‘JEROME IN THE WILDERNESS’ ON ACUTE RESIDENTIAL, BEHAVIORAL HEALTH EMPLOYMENT

I found an F. I was at my job, with this kid, a boy, when I stepped on it: a cube, bevel-edged small; a bead: F. Like a lion thing, a thorn. Ouch, I coulda said, woulda, but this boy was watching, and I was wearing my sneaker shoes, their like-Faith cushiony soles. And the boy, no saint, like martyring Jerome’s Lion, he stopped walking when I did. He watched me lift my left foot. The cube thorned into my sneaker’s cushiony sole, like Faith. The boy’s mom is dying, so I Lioned for him: Ha.

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Wanting

Wanting

He had been fingering his sax mutely from behind the door. “No pretending you forgot something in the living room. No ‘Oh, I’m just coming out to get a glass of water.’” Lilly had gone through these provisions like a lawyer walking through a contract, even asking him to place hand over heart and swear. “But what’s all this?” he’d said, hurt. “Don’t you trust me?” “Not one bit,” she’d retorted. “I know you, Gaurav.”

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