The Fourth River

Poem: “The Rocket,” by Adam Tavel

Poem: “The Rocket,” by Adam Tavel

By on August 27, 2012

for Andrew Foose Interstate battery, alligator clips, two lengths of copper wire snaking to the slender rocket perched on cinderblock—this ignition is the best we can muster. Zachary counts backwards to a blastoff no eye registers, a wet crackle and

Poem: “Neighbors on Elizabeth Street,” by Katharyn Howd Machan

Poem: “Neighbors on Elizabeth Street,” by Katharyn Howd Machan

By on May 1, 2012

They understand each other, these two houses: worn wood painted once, twice, thrice then let to weather where it will, hurricanes’ kiss, rain’s promise. Porches down and porches up, balconies, storm-shuttered windows, screens against jewel-winged beetles, bats that might settle,

Poem: “Lost in Lower Manhattan,” by Liz Dolan

Poem: “Lost in Lower Manhattan,” by Liz Dolan

By on March 18, 2012

  As dusk descends I shrink into the collar of my blue chesterfield, quicken my step.  I use my books as a shield before my chest to deflect their stares while a phalanx of drunks huddles around fires in steel

Poem: “Light, Pinned and Singing,” by Jessica Reed

Poem: “Light, Pinned and Singing,” by Jessica Reed

By on January 7, 2012

I am finally present. As Virginia said, My eyes are hard. Years ago now, in optics lab, my partner’s strange pronunciation of ‘frosted glass’. We were looking at spectra then: glass- shattered light lines. But I couldn’t focus. Those radiant

Poem: “The Canyon,” by Candace Black

Poem: “The Canyon,” by Candace Black

By on December 7, 2011

Beyond the strip of backyard grass, further than the rim of ice plant’s succulent green spears, past the firebreak bulldozers shaved each spring across tufts of scrubby chaparral and mustard, exposing once

Poem: “Daffodils One Sunday Before Snow,” by Shaun T. Griffin

Poem: “Daffodils One Sunday Before Snow,” by Shaun T. Griffin

By on October 31, 2011

Already the bulbs croon the silent damp, the edge of spring not days from here, land of the thin green necks that sprout before the last white morning— because, of course, it will come. Helpless in another silence, my father-in-law