The Sisters, by Berthe Morisot
[poetry]

let us cast lots, and can't we have a lesbian love story where no one dies?

By Caleb Wolfson-Seeley


I hate rich people, // my son says, spat // from the belly of the bus // that each day returns him // to dry land

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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.


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Latest Publications:

[fiction]

Seeds of Pomegranate

By Tatum Le Goff

Usually Rafael was called Rafa, but Hope shortened it further to Raf. Some of the other men who worked at the hotel would tease him when they heard this, but Rafael never mentioned it to her. He met her briefly while she worked the day shift during the summer time, when the sun would bleed through the windows and warm her pale face while she stood behind the front desk.

[poetry]

Rue

By Arjun Khade

In her woman's world, a virtual wombniverse; her vultcherish watchers wild in their flickering half-dreams of fleshy lust and crimson joy.

[poetry]

brine, this is a Bauhaus love affair, and there are foxes now

By Lucinda Trew

snow is coming // so are trucks carrying // glacial tons of salt to season // winter and cure streets // with brine

[article]

Gravity

By Suzanne Miller

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.

[poetry]

Becoming a Believer and NFPA 70E

By Avery H. Thompson

The locals, believers of gods, drink tsipouro long into the night // And brag to me about how lucky they were to be born here

[article]

In the Wake of Fr. X

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.

[poetry]

Her Last Garden

By Joseph Hunter

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.

[poetry]

Immersion and The Anatomy of Average

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

Submissions


Have a poem, short story, or piece of creative non-fiction that you'd like to share with the world? Visit our submissions page to learn more about contributing to The Rumen.