I got the results from the paternity test and an offer for a new job on the same day. The paternity test was positive; I was the father. The new job was cutting meat at Chives, a specialty grocery store in Boulder. On my lunch break I texted my twin sister Maria that I wanted to share two things with her on Skype. I told my coworker, Lance, the news after work at Hank’s, our regular bar.
Another surly October morning on Rathdangan Farm, the name of our rocky little homestead in the foothills of the Sugarloaf Range, and Mother Nature was in a nasty mood. Her swirling wind bossed the sycamore leaves around the farmyard, and wisps of her clammy fog still clung to the steep mountain peak in the distance. My mother—we called her Mammy— was a whirlwind of work, as usual: milking cows, feeding calves and pigs, washing clothes, holding it all together.
My wife and I are into season 3 of Victoria, the Masterpiece Theatre series that seems as long as the queen’s monarchial reign. It’s a slow-moving narrative in which a tea cup is picked up, put down. Then, for dramatic tension, the camera pans to a terrier that, on cue, lifts a hind leg to squirt on the carpet—a barbarous display in the palace household.
Winnie’s 350-square foot studio that she called home resembled a submarine, she liked to say to strangers, to offer them a quick image of what it was like to live in small spaces. A submarine was dark and hollow, challenged by gravity. Her apartment was on the top floor of a walk-up tenement building in downtown Manhattan, and got afternoon light. But at night she could squint and conjure the resemblance. Not that she’d ever set foot inside of a submarine.
The simple ways are the best. Roadkill / soup. Jumping out of airplanes / without a chute. Getting up with the sun
One day the rooster said to the little red wagon, “Little red wagon, I’ve sung my song. Won’t you give a me a ride around the farm?” “No,” the little red wagon said.
The worthy and wealthy men of color / stood on Golconda, gangplank, Savannah, / the blind Pharoah, thrown overboard, sorrow.
Like a violin wishing it were a piano. Like a cirrus cloud afraid of heights. Like a Nobel scientist unsure of the science. Like a barn with hay-fever. Like a lake afraid of being too...
GMR welcomes our newest staff member, Anita Olivia Koester.
This river it isn’t / a river your mirror
Standoff by David Rivard Graywolf. 2016. David Rivard’s sixth collection of poetry, Standoff, released in 2016 by Graywolf Press totes an impressive number of glowing reviews and a heavy list of humble brag worthy laurels. Most recently it won the PEN/New England...
Orn returned from work to an untidy house. Half-eaten bowls of cereal strewn on the counter, newspapers with coffee rings and mashed scrambled eggs melding with wet ink. The sticky floors popped with each step. Her annoyance grew, but who was there to blame?