The Fourth River

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1,000 words (a documentary) / New Plantation Blues

By on June 30, 2017

Essay by Gina Myers, photos by Jaime Torres   Artist Statement The gradual decline of the auto-industry and other industrial factors has had a profound effect on rustbelt cities. Detroit, Pittsburgh, and to a lesser extent Flint and Gary have

Tributaries: “Morning Glory”

By on June 28, 2017

By Fay L. Loomis   first blush of warmth unfolds velvety purple face midday withered glory carpe mane seize the morning   ** Fay L. Loomis, a nemophilist (haunter of the woods, one who loves the forest, its beauty, and

Tributaries: “Rehabilitation: A Gospel”

By on June 21, 2017

  By Ashely Adams   It took three days to pull your wings    from the metal grille. What can a man do with an owl a shroud of cardboard and terry cloth? There’s no one here to roll back your

Tributaries: “Devil’s Crown Rock, Galapagos, Ecuador”

By on June 14, 2017

By K. E. Ogden   My body merges with black blades of slicing currents. In the dark water below me hundreds of sharks move in an IV tube from this world to the next. I ask my guide, Pablo, how

Tributaries: “Peony”

By on June 7, 2017

By Sally Nacker   for B.W.   You bring home a peony bush to plant with your dog’s ashes. Too late for medicine, or hope, but not for beauty. Each June, an effusion of vivid blossoms will open, blessing air.

Tributaries: “Arrows Go in Circles”

By on May 31, 2017

By Ryan Loveeachother   You drag the blue recycling crate to the curb. When you’re at work, the big truck comes collecting. Shrill hydraulic brakes. A robotic arm snatches, lifts and shakes. Everything shatters into a million loud pieces. Speculations

Three Poems by Joseph Bathanti

By on May 29, 2017

To read our interview with Joseph Bathanti, click here.   Girl After Sam Hamill’s Translation of Izumi Shikibu Her long brown hair, still a girl’s at that instant of intake, a breath she holds interminably – because the black dog

Tributaries: “The Wisdom of Neighbors”

By on May 24, 2017

By Susan Wider     Dark-eyed junco:             Relax into the slide. A light dusting of snow covers the gently-sloping green roof of the bird feeder. You fly there—regular schedule, normal speed. You take it at a slide when you try

Tributaries: “Crossing Borders”

By on May 17, 2017

By Aileen Bassis   Walking on roads and rubble, gravel and grass, pavement and black-top. We know our past. We don’t know what waits. Grass and pavement, black-top hillsides and grasslands, desert and dirt, we don’t know what waits —

Tributaries: “Glass with Soma and Salt”

By on May 10, 2017

By Amy Small-McKinney     This time there is a window, there is also a sea. Not what you expect, not my usual ocean of evergreen. Here I lean against regret. Behind me, everything I want. Uncertain blue or insistent