I am building a boat in the basement // and there are still so many details to work out.
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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I opened your bag today. The orange one Mrs. A gave you on your last birthday, the one with the gold buckle you said made you “feel like a senator’s wife.” I don’t know why I was reaching for it.
By Cara Howard
We waited two hours for our turn to pay our respects. Bill and I shifted in a pew at the back of the sanctuary while snapshots from happier days looped on large screens near the altar. Conversations buzzed all around us.
Gold splashes desperate over burning sienna, // The artist is choosing tobacco over bread.
By RL Selden
Molek! Your holy fire consumes // the burning bush speaking these new riddles
By David August
It was Thursday night, and like so many other nights in the past few months, he drove aimlessly through the city, alone with his thoughts.
It was almost time to bring in the sheep before the sun set behind the mountains. With excitement on her face and a bounce in her step, Iris emerged from the bedroom to the patio of her adobe house with a volleyball.
Rime has settled on our wine fridge and the kitchen // island, making the quartz glacier shimmer in the // morning light.
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