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.
read more
Recent Posts
Dust
How many little lives in between my fingernails, how many layers / of sod, of seed? This cold grass is all corpse and it’s only six o’clock /
in the evening. At the group home, I’ll spoon green beans and strained peaches / into my grandfather’s mouth, push them back onto his plate when he shoves
4 Poems
Warhol & Kafka
Usually I obey the barking & thank an invisible God for invisible fences.
Dog whistles.
A bad batch of Molly, out of context, sounds so innocent.
What I was going to say is code for before you interrupted.
How to Be Alone in Florida
Back and forth, the waves sloshed in a steady rhythm–a calming musical accompaniment to the day.
read more
Review of ORIGINS OF THE UNIVERSE AND WHAT IT ALL MEANS by Carole Firstman
Dzanc Books. 263 pp. In the first chapters of her memoir, Origins of the Universe and What it all Means, Carole Firstman packs up her father’s old house. According to his specific instructions, she organizes boxes to send to him at his new home in Mexico, and while...
read more
Blurry Vision
She said she had seen a ghost, or a blurry vision, as she called it, behind our bedroom mirror.
read more
Two Poems
I am cleaning out a woman’s underwear drawer,
a woman who burned herself to death in the woods last week,
Announcing the Winners of the First Annual GMR Book Prize
The editors at Green Mountains Review are pleased to announce the winners of the first annual GMR Book Prize. Many congratulations to all the finalists! And congrats to the winners! The winning manuscripts will be published Fall 2016. PROSE Judged by Sarah Manguso...
read more
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
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 moreWant to Submit Your Work?