Three Poems

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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GMR

 

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Changes

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

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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Dust

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

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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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A Chicago Story

A Chicago Story

She is up against the wall in the kitchen, pushed against the world’s smallest refrigerator, one hand on the world’s smallest oven, bright hot red. She is saying something. What is she saying?

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Why the Moon Matters

Why the Moon Matters

If the Earth is a hotel room and humans are the rockers who trashed it, the Moon regrets that cosmic management has not procured the imprint of a mortal credit card. The Moon and its subsidiaries are taking a look at the Moon’s own violent creation.

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Lunch

Lunch

I imagined myself flying away from my body, away from the tiger, away from the earth and I was safe, I thought, until I felt the big cat’s muzzle press against my belly. I shut my eyes tighter. His whiskers felt like the broom Mother used to sweep our hut and I could feel my shirt wet where his nose met the fabric.

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