Rumpus Original
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Rumpus Original Poetry: Three Poems by Todd McKinney
Of course, it’d be wonderful to have / the Southern Hemisphere back.
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Men Haunting Men: A conversation with Richard Mirabella
Maybe being haunted is just feeling something crooked nearby
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Bruce
Perhaps when we recognize the monsters alive in our brains, we’re less likely to kill the shadows cleaning up after us.
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Insatiable Hunger: Wanting, edited by Margot Kahn and Kelly McMasters
If I could not morph into a rescue dog doted on by childless lesbians, at least I could luxuriate in this anthology.
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From the Archives: Rumpus Original Fiction: Even the Moon
When you finished, several minutes passed before we spoke. You dipped a finger in a pool of candle wax. How could I know this was the only real secret you’d ever kept?
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Leave what you can, take the rest: An Interview with Idra Novey
Every day you have to abandon your past or accept it, and then, if you cannot accept it, you become a sculptor.
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ENOUGH: Three Poems by Tenika Stallings
“On the Other Side of the Door,” “Left for Dead,” “The Double Cross”
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Migration and return: De’Shawn Charles Winslow on going back to West Mills
I was able to visualize my hometown so much more keenly, having not lived there in fifteen years. I believe it allowed me to write about the place with a little bit more compassion than if I had tried to…
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A Worn Violence: On Gabrielle Bates’ Judas Goat
[T]here is a speaker who will simply persevere, who will, like “the heart trying to leave the chest,” keep going, and by keeping going, will tend always, though it’s sometimes hard, toward human connection. Toward love.
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The View from the Backstretch: Kathryn Scanlan’s Kick the Latch
Though this account is full of wounds, losses, and hardships, the Sonia who emerges herein speaks of them with the kind of sinewy, bracing directness you would expect of a complete stranger sitting across from you at the bar.
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Rumpus Original Fiction: All This Will Be Underwater
I typed, Are you aging? Are you tired and worn? Do you spend all your time fretting about the fine lines on your face and how they foretell the slow and steady march toward death or, worse, that moment when…
