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Yes, They've Met

Yes, They've Met By Jolene McIlwain   |  February 20, 2017
There's a 1/16 scale Texaco truck parked on our mantle, its frame crooked and stack bent from ways it's been stored. I dust it. Then, I dust my son's toolbox, an eighth-grade shop project etched with the name he's inherited from good stock. My husband's grandfather drove a Texaco truck...

Ice

Ice By Heather Osterman-Davis   |  February 13, 2017
I'm nine months pregnant with my first child, and the snow in NYC has been beaten into submission. I've just come off a packed subway...

Why We Need Literature More Than Ever

Why We Need Literature More Than Ever By D.L. Hall   |  February 7, 2017
Flesh and Stones: Field Notes from a Finite World by Jan Shoemaker
Keywords: book review

Seattle, After the Rain

Seattle, After the Rain By Anna Vodicka   |  February 6, 2017
To the birds, we must look like ants at a picnic, the way we crawl from our dark caves and run crazed for sidewalks and grassy parks...

Announcing the Winner of the 2016 River Teeth Book Contest

Announcing the Winner of the 2016 River Teeth Book Contest February 1, 2017
Congratulations to Sarah Viren, the winner of this year's River Teeth book contest. Her collection of linked essays entitled "Mine" was picked by our final judge Andre Dubus III.
Keywords: book contest, winner

This is Where You'll Find Me

This is Where You'll Find Me By Jenny Lara   |  January 30, 2017
New York City, after we lied then made rules. It shouldn't work by a long shot but it does....

Lines of Light

Lines of Light By Clara Mae Barnhart   |  January 23, 2017
At sunset in Burlington the power lines are golden like the afterglow of sparklers when children twirl them in the air. A frayed ribbon of sunlight stretches out...

What We Did with the Honey

What We Did with the Honey By Julia Shipley   |  January 16, 2017
The day we learned you were gone, Howie says he knocked, nothing answered.

Stitched Together

Stitched Together By Heather Gemmen Wilson   |  January 13, 2017
Body Memory is comprised of five, intimately connected essays. All of the essays, together, weave a story, simultaneously sad and expectant, of a man bereft.
Keywords: book review

Parabolic

Parabolic By Jack Bedell   |  January 9, 2017
His first summer married, my father tended chickens. His job was to chase the birds out of the tin coop on hot days...
Keywords: jack bedell, parabolic  |   3 comments

Morning (repeat)

Morning (repeat) By Michelle Webster-Hein   |  January 2, 2017
When my infant daughter wakes at two in the morning and her father cannot coax her back to sleep...

White (repeat)

White (repeat) By Jennifer Bowen Hicks   |  December 26, 2016
We no longer remember the sound of birdsong or the feel of dry pavement beneath our feet, but we walk to school anyway because school is the place we're meant to walk to on Tuesday mornings. Temperatures register -23 below zero...
Keywords: beautiful things, white  |   3 comments

Grace (repeat)

Grace (repeat) By Aaron J. Housholder   |  December 19, 2016
"Thank you," I tell the manager, "for taking my order so late." The sizzle of the grill frames my words. "I appreciate it."
Keywords: beautiful things, grace  |   4 comments

Holding (repeat)

Holding (repeat) By Kathryn Wilder   |  December 12, 2016
My sister and I live on either side of sixty. We've been mothers half our lives. Visiting her in Oregon, Ashland running a steady hundred degrees for days into weeks, we head to Lake of the Woods...

A Craft He Would, Thankfully, Never Learn

A Craft He Would, Thankfully, Never Learn By Michael Steinberg   |  December 8, 2016
In the 1970s and 1980s, freshman composition was a province of nonfiction writing. In those days, teachers who taught comp--myself among them--learned our craft largely from the primers of people like Peter Elbow, Toby Fulwiler, Wendy Bishop, and Donald Murray, four of that period's more formidable, most passionate teacher-writers...

Turkey Soup (repeat)

Turkey Soup (repeat) By Marissa Landrigan   |  December 5, 2016
On Thanksgiving, after the turkey is carved and gutted - after we slice through half of the twenty-pound bird my mother insists on ordering...

Pushcart Nominations for 2016

Pushcart Nominations for 2016 December 2, 2016
River Teeth is pleased to announce this year's Pushcart nominations!

Birthday Cards

Birthday Cards By Jia Lim   |  November 28, 2016
Once, I wrote a birthday poem for her forty-second. It described her love of wine, and how she was so very fine. Exceedingly satisfied at the neat rhyme and my infinite untapped potential, I awaited glowing praise...

An Absence of Yellow

An Absence of Yellow By Lisa Laughlin   |  November 21, 2016
It's mid-August and already my grandfather's pumpkins boast a bright orange. His cucumbers have laced thin vines up the patio rail. The tomatoes flush cherry-red in waves. My grandparents bribe me with vegetables to come for a visit...

Claudia

Claudia By Jo-Anne Cappeluti   |  November 14, 2016
She was only 15 and already had lost a leg to bone cancer. Our high school girls' Sunday school class had pondered this for a few weeks...

In the Fold

In the Fold By Ariana Brocious   |  November 7, 2016
She wields a basket of clean linen with easy confidence: one, two moves across the chest to make a towel into thirds...

Growing Up With Doomsday

Growing Up With Doomsday By Mimi Schwartz   |  November 1, 2016
Memoir, in the hands of its best practitioners, enables readers to enter a world quite different from their own--and find common ground. No writer does this better than Jerald Walker, author of The World in Flames, A Black Boyhood in a White Supremacist Doomsday Cult.
Keywords: book review

Only Now

Only Now By Suzanne Farrell Smith   |  October 31, 2016
Only now, as you stand center of an aisle carpeted royal blue, where you and your older sisters, styled by mother in hand-sewn dresses to match her own, once trailed like ducks down the narrow river...

Bike Ride

Bike Ride By Ethan Joella   |  October 24, 2016
I don't remember if I wrapped my hands around my father when he let me ride on the back of his yellow Schwinn....

Red Birds

Red Birds By Melissa Ballard   |  October 17, 2016
I hand the plate of raw vegetables to Dad. He sets it on the shelf attached to the grill, settles his arm around me. Pointing to the tree above, he says, "See those red birds?"

Reliquary

Reliquary By Leah Silverman   |  October 10, 2016
When Rachmaninoff swallows my mother, I no longer know the woman...

True Grits

True Grits By Richard Gilbert   |  October 6, 2016
Harry Crews begins his classic memoir A Childhood: The Biography of a Place by conjuring in intimate detail someone he doesn't remember...

Bare, Naked

Bare, Naked By Andrea Fisk Rotterman   |  October 3, 2016
Rain falls, dimpling puddles. I kick off my clogs. My toenails shine like sparkling pumpkin peel. I slide my underwear and jeans down my legs...

On Guilt

On Guilt By Jennifer Wortman   |  September 26, 2016
When I was a baby and woke up at night, my mother held me, her arms a boat on a gentle sea. Oh, the helpless power of the small, to be thus cupped in the world's warm hand...

Water

Water By Chris Huntington   |  September 19, 2016
Many days I set a thermos of jasmine tea beside me on my desk. Jasmine tea is mostly water, perfumed by flowers. My thermos is stainless steel with metallic green paint and says L.L. Bean on one side...

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