Amy Lemmon’s book of poems, The Miracles, is a meditation on life after loss, and its themes are motherhood, love, and aging. Lemmon writes, “The structure of the book was inspired by Leonard Bernstein’s Prelude, Fugue and Riffs (1949) for solo clarinet and jazz ensemble.”
I sat on the basement floor of the courthouse reading through old death records. Outside the afternoon sun blasted the streets and sidewalks of the small Kentucky town. But down there it was cool and humid. Whitewashed stone walls glistened and streaked with dirty moisture. An air conditioner rattled in the only window, blocking out the sun.
I got the results from the paternity test and an offer for a new job on the same day. The paternity test was positive; I was the father. The new job was cutting meat at Chives, a specialty grocery store in Boulder. On my lunch break I texted my twin sister Maria that I wanted to share two things with her on Skype. I told my coworker, Lance, the news after work at Hank’s, our regular bar.
Another surly October morning on Rathdangan Farm, the name of our rocky little homestead in the foothills of the Sugarloaf Range, and Mother Nature was in a nasty mood. Her swirling wind bossed the sycamore leaves around the farmyard, and wisps of her clammy fog still clung to the steep mountain peak in the distance. My mother—we called her Mammy— was a whirlwind of work, as usual: milking cows, feeding calves and pigs, washing clothes, holding it all together.
“Eden” by Tariq Thomas won the Youth Poetry, Prose and Pizza Slam hosted by the Brattleboro Literary Festival. Green Mountains Review is proud to publish Tariq’s poem. Congrats, Tariq!
My love, we floated for hours / In kayaks, side by side, scarcely dipping our paddles. / No motors allowed here, no soul in any / Of the southerly shore’s three other cabins.
The simple ways are the best. Roadkill / soup. Jumping out of airplanes / without a chute. Getting up with the sun
One day the rooster said to the little red wagon, “Little red wagon, I’ve sung my song. Won’t you give a me a ride around the farm?” “No,” the little red wagon said.
The worthy and wealthy men of color / stood on Golconda, gangplank, Savannah, / the blind Pharoah, thrown overboard, sorrow.
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...
GMR welcomes our newest staff member, Anita Olivia Koester.
This river it isn’t / a river your mirror