Notes of a Masked Son

Notes of a Masked Son

I THE IDEA FOR MY TEN-MINUTE SESSION COMES TO ME SOON AFTER I RESPOND to Candace Hunter’s call for participants. She asks friends—fellow artists, collectors, and other supporters—to sit across from her in silence on her house’s front lawn on a Sunday afternoon, the...

read more

The Social Virtues Series

tilt shift photography of green fruit
GMR
 

Recent Posts

Two Poems

Two Poems

Every train I’ve ever run for has left me & still, I find myself gripping my straps & pounding pavement, waving down whoever’s evening blurs behind the power lines & purpling clouds. I do not wish loneliness of any kind  upon anybody, but I’d take...

read more
She Says

She Says

We’re dreamswalking in the worldon the landof red skin red bloodon the land of a civil war She sayswe will walkon rifles for freedomon missiles for foodon the hymns of spiritualshumming the criesof our children      killedtheir parents...

read more
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.

12 + 12 =

Nine Winds (i am only ever writing about love)

Nine Winds (i am only ever writing about love)

I. Pandemic IT IS THE FIRST WEEK OF MARCH WHEN WE CROSS THE BORDER INTO MEXICO, continuing the long drive from the temperate rainforest of the Pacific Northwest and head down the California coast, where the land is roughened into arid boulders. We are now cruising the...

read more
Four Poems

Four Poems

Uterus, You Always the gracious hostess, stretched thinto accommodate your growing guests—threepregnancies a breeze. Until the physicaltherapist asked if mine was still intactI hadn’t thought of you in forty years.How rude of me! But in my defense,I never had a sense...

read more
Ornithology

Ornithology

LAST NIGHT I DREAMED I was a child. Mother on the front porch, watering flowers. Daddy on the couch, book fallen to the floor. Too young for words, I know nothing of their worlds. Ornithology. Site fidelity. Geraniums. Faith. I know nothing yet of the split between science and God, between men and women, between want and need. Home is a set of sensory perceptions: the rough-smooth texture of my father’s wool socks; bright red tomatoes on the windowsill; my mother humming “Abide With Me” as flowers outside remain abundant, carrying full green leaves.

read more
Thirst

Thirst

SHANTAY UNLOCKED THE FRONT DOOR OF HER MOTHER’S HOUSE, THE WEIGHT of her 9mm Luger pressed against her hip. Before she pushed the door open, she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the block, which was moonlit and chilly on that spring night. Inside, she untied her...

read more

Want to Submit Your Work?