Before I knew what hit me, Tom was my husband—the adoptive father of my children, and a sought-after dealmaker in our affluent community. Tom was a risk-taker. He had a certain style. An iconoclast, he did things his way or not at all.
The Rumen is a collaboration between writers and poets from a variety of demographics and backgrounds. Like the guts of an ungulate, we want The Rumen to be a space for ideas and experiences to digest, ferment, and transform.
The locals, believers of gods, drink tsipouro long into the night // And brag to me about how lucky they were to be born here
By MH Petrus
One recent Sunday, I attended St. Augustine Catholic church in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland, close to where I live. This was not typical behavior for me; I had grown disaffected with the Catholic Church through the years, but I liked to dip my toe into its baptismal font, so to speak, on occasion, usually around Easter, to see if I felt closer to God.
My uncle told me turn the soil over // after that we'll lay a sheet over it // everything under it will die, and // we can start again.
By Barun Saha
Those are stygian times when blood & clay plastered on bones melt into lumps // The floor tiles slide across, the many mouths of abyss await
You’re alone. You’re alone in a house in the woods. You’ve been running for some time.
By Brian Sutton
Dear Sir: As requested, I shall begin by providing background information about myself. My name is Vernon Lantry. I am fifty-one years of age.
By Meggie Royer
Before we knew, we heard— // the horses shot in the pasture, // clamor receding along the fence line like snow.
I took the truck down the rough, narrow trail, rounding the final rutted bend out of the woods and onto the rocky beach surrounding the lake.
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