BY KERI WITHINGTON If I could untangle umbilical cord, measure calcification, label isosceles, scalene, acute, copy your construction, its strict geometry I could find comfort at your steel altar meditate to the wasp buzz of power; electricity thrums from
BY KAT LEWIS When her boot slips from rock into mud, the silence is broken. The distant careening of creek over stone, bellow of a bird somewhere close to the constant buzz of tiny insects near the ear, but not.
By Abby Minor Will the Real Folks Please Stand Up?: Rebellion, Authenticity, and Identity in Hick Poetics I was raised by a man who had opinions about the word “creek.” My father never missed an opportunity to remind
By Allison Brooks Here I am the proverbial stranger: My foolish mouth, my pig-shit mind, drops verbs of being sweeps them up from this slippy floor. I was forged stupid, then, by lunch pails and Catechism. Mid-west, where thunderstorms
BY DENTON LOVING Sunday afternoons after church, after miles of my pleading, my dad pulled off blacktop, onto the gravel lane leading home. My Dad and I, at the mouth of the hollow, played Chinese fire drill, Mother relegated already
By Sarah Ann Winn One of five reservoirs. Not a lake, but my lake, Hower Lake. Islanded, my land grown by dredging, then, once the depths were scoured, raising water levels, lowering. Shores once submerged, emerged, every year differently
By Austin Anderson snow along the top of fences breaking sun on cinder blocks at dawn there is no ponderosa no tamarack stone molded cement walls & patio three stem wild rose dead & hanging on bamboo pole
from The Fourth River, issue 13 The oldest known wild bird in the world, an albatross, is 64 and right about now—late November—she’s probably gliding over a mutable line in the North Pacific, a transition zone where cold water
By Juleigh Howard-Hobson Clouds, thick with black middles and grey edges That spread out to almost white where the sun Tries to break through…but can’t, of course. No wedges Of light may push their way through. It’s not done
This essay also appears in The Fourth River Issue O.3 as part of the Melanie Brown Tribute When we moved into our house, our neighbor, who lived beside us, brought us a pie. It was a kind gesture.