The Fourth River

Selections

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Two Poems by Philip Terman

By on October 28, 2016

    Willie Wheeler My job’s to wake them up. 6 A.M dark, driving to the home for “intellectually disabled” youth— crystals of snow on windshield dissolve and are swept away: snow, glass, sweep—you could lose yourself in the steady

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Fiction: “Veyo, Forgotten by the Mormons,” by Ryan Habermeyer

By on October 21, 2016

We were in the tall grasses creeping on finches when we seen mama run down the slope in her Sunday finest and throw herself in the creek. Papa stood there scratching at his hair like he was fixing a nest

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Poem: “Beheaded Deer, The Power Lines Near Brewster Lake,” by Kate Belew

By on October 7, 2016

From The Fourth River, Issue 11   Listen to Kate Belew read “Beheaded Deer, The Power Lines Near Brewster Lake”   It was too late by the time the last sparks flew. I had already been tangled in the webs

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Fiction: “We Were Young and Strong,” by Leslie Maxwell

By on September 23, 2016

From The Fourth River, Issue 11   Listen to Leslie Maxwell read “We Were Young and Strong”   One July day, summer-vacation bored with our parents at work, my sister and I decided to dig a hole to China. Nothing

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Essay: “Something that Loves a Wall,” by Margot Anne Kelley

By on June 19, 2016

From The Fourth River, Issue 12   The boundary is that from which something begins its essential unfolding. — Heidegger Lengths of the rough, graying wood ring a small paddock that separates two lumbering, gentle horses from the rest of

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Essay: “Morning Beat,” by Wendy Gist

By on March 23, 2016

  From The Fourth River Issue 10   “Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven’t time, and to see takes time –                                 like to have a friend takes time.” -Georgia O’Keeffe   North Buttery sunshine spreads

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Poem: “The Spineless,” by Lois Marie Harrod

By on March 14, 2016

From The Fourth River, Issue 12   No use telling the jellyfish to stand up for herself or the footless slug to stand his ground. Most amoebae are wobbly as curdled milk and even the centipede for all his feet

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Essay: “Driving the Section Line,” by Sarah K. Lenz

By on February 29, 2016

From The Fourth River, issue 12   “This is where I want you to spread my ashes,” my father says. “When I die, cremate me and dump me here.” I look to the edge of the ravine. A rotten fence

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Poem: “Among Landowners and Industrial Stakeholders, a Citizen with Too Much Memory Seeks Standing to Speak of Recent Events in Penn’s Woods,” by Julia Spicher Kasdorf

By on December 8, 2014

When I drive south on I -78, diagonal highway from New York to Harrisburg, the Blue Mountain presses my right shoulder for miles, dividing coal tipples from barns with hex signs, French and Indian territory from the British colony. At