I once told a therapist my father was molesting me. It wasn’t true. I was twenty-five and exhausted, lying awake most nights trying to understand why I felt so sad when nothing in my life was obviously wrong.
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.
Want to support our publication? Become a Subscriber or Buy us a Coffee!

Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.

duty pulled a mountain along lesser used roads. // time was ill-spent preparing workers for the crossing.
.jpg?alt=media&token=3b6b38c2-6a33-462e-a707-5089fd5a25bd)
My dear trees, I no longer recognize you // The storm puts its mouth to the house

Look upon the simple life tinged by shades of emotions, all // of it a facade to entertain one’s own delusions.

By Ace Boggess
I’ve never walked in driving rain // as she does now, the noise so sudden & // vast as to become its own silence.


I am building a boat in the basement // and there are still so many details to work out.
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.