The locals, believers of gods, drink tsipouro long into the night // And brag to me about how lucky they were to be born here
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 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.
By Joseph Long
Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which, // if spoken too soon, sears itself upon // my balloon.
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