By Joseph Long
Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which, // if spoken too soon, sears itself upon // my balloon.
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.
By Jeff Blechle
This morning Yeorgi woke up in his backyard feeling a bruise on his lower back, convinced that stacked chairs and vodka were not his friends, nor was his wife, if he was being honest, or his goat Omar, whose pretense of loyalty clashed with Yeorgi’s trusting nature—and poor little Boots lying dead with light bulb fragments decorating her scant cleavage, well, she was no great pal either, always shoving him into hazardous, life-threatening tasks, always trying to get out of paying him, criticizing.
By Jia Yan Tan
but if that doesn’t work then call your mother
My parents knew that ten percent of my cells were missing an X-chromosome before I was born. I didn’t find out until I was nine.
He dug and dug and dug. Under the scorching summer sun, Balram toiled endlessly.
And yet nothing is as satisfying // as scratching the pen back // and forth over having it all // done and evidenced.
By C.A.Dickson
The first time I tasted a Landomunn Farms pistachio, it ruined me.
If you move a chair, // the Pharaoh's curse may turn out // to be a fact.
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