The Somnambulist

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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GMR

 

Recent Posts

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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Changes

The river changed course / By three feet. / Thus the willow withers from thirst. / Thus the rock is set alone like an altar. / Thus the grassy hill browns.

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2013

The summer of 2013 / Was seen through rose tinted sunglasses / We gathered at Christa’s house, / Solemnly toasting to “the last year”

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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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Bazaar

Bazaar

PAUL CARROLL, a former professional ballet dancer, works as an attorney bringing environmental lawsuits in northern California on behalf of public interest groups, and handling criminal appeals for the indigent.

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Belongings

Belongings

The daughter’s wind chimes have been stolen. Someone swiped the singing things right off the cobwebbed porch. But more, too: her dusty rolling pin she bakes pies for her mother with, chef’s knife she rocks over garden-grown herbs, Guatemalan painting, Danish desk—all gone.

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The Migration of Kiruna

The Migration of Kiruna

The new town had nearly the same blueprint but was more trim and better thought-out. . . . . Once a replica was finished in the new town, its original was demolished without ceremony. The streets were slowly tilled into dust and brisk wind.

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Two Poems

Two Poems

She’d say, Someday you’ll go on without me. She worked the back of the box. From underneath. Where the saw couldn’t reach. Her name was Ruby. We had nothing in common but our long skinny feet.

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The Heart of the Farm

The Heart of the Farm

When I was a child I believed the farm where I grew up was a living being. As a living being, it had a heart. The location of the heart was obvious to me, though it seemed I was the only one who knew. I didn’t tell anyone.

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