Two Poems

Two Poems

Most men can’t handle knowing what they are / Capable of—that the only thing they own of / The lives they stumble through are the long / Nights of plague & quiet that we are pushing read more
GMR

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Born Naked

The first time I met my husband, he was wearing a single-breasted, peacock-blue suit made of silk. In the khaki and navy blazer culture that was Washington, D.C. at the time, Mario stood out. With his continental name, olive skin, and sartorial flair, many assumed he was Italian. That people were surprised to discover he was Mexican said less about him than it did about their preconceptions, some of which I shared. This was before I’d moved to Mexico, before I’d read The Labyrinth of Solitude, in which Octavio Paz says of the zoot-suit wearing pachuco: His disguise is a protection, but it also differentiates and isolates him: it both hides him and points him out. read more

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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.

8 + 8 =

Neighbors

Neighbors

It was one o’clock in the morning and I was driving out of town with a man I had only known for ten minutes, contemplating running a red light or exceeding the speed limit to attract any police cars that might be around. read more
Hands

Hands

My yard didn’t look so regal now. Not with the bottom branches bare in mid August and hands piling up on the grass. Some palms up, as if listening to robins carry on across the back fence. The rest palms down. read more
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