Rumpus Original Fiction: Bloom
The bloom would not open until we arrived, but it was not waiting for us. It was a matter of timing. Each year in mid-March, the petals uncurled from their fetal sleeping positions, stretched out to face the sun.
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Voice On Addiction: Another Thing to Chase
She’s still somehow always thirsty . . . At least none of these drinks will kill her, even if the hunt for mood and mind-altering, for distraction, for something out there to help, may follow her to the grave.
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Poetry: Four Poems by Maggie Smith
What do we do? We birth the new citizens / & answer their bodies with our bodies. // We rock the new citizens to sleep. / We clothe them with skin & stamp // their passports with milk.
From the Archive: We Are More: New Country, Old Bones
What did you hope to build in the / New country?
An Open Letter in Lieu of a Review: on Still Life by Jay Hopler
. . . there’s some vital aspect to a person even the approach of oblivion can’t erase.
The Last Book of Poems I Loved: Louise Glück’s Winter Recipes from the Collective
"I was glad at least to have heard it."
Rumpus Original Fiction: Shadow Catchers
One month after receiving the doctor’s revised prognosis, Zina attended her father’s funeral. The next day, she boarded a minibus back home, a satchel of herbs for her special teas stashed in her bag. She resumed her position as the second child, confident that things would be different. / She knew now how to shift the world in her favor.
RUMPUS POETRY BOOK CLUB EXCERPT: “42” by Aldo Amparán
An excerpt from The Rumpus Poetry Book Club's August selection
Enough: Incandescent
I can see your mouth moving, a monologue of mock misery meant to quiet me, accelerating your tears for your finishing act. But all I hear is the roar of my own voice, the unholy screech, the gravel of my throat grinding against itself, finding its traction.
From the Archive: Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Eve L. Ewing
They look / for a lash that isn’t there, even them that never felt it. / It’s in their shoulders. / The lash lives in their shoulders.