Dear Readers,

When we launched Waterwheel Review, we were keen to explain why we were so moved and motivated by the image of the waterwheel. Water stands for language, an ever flowing, renewable source; the waterwheel, an engine of labor, circles through, lifting words and then dropping them back into the running stream. Our magazine is a mill, we said, where the waterwheel powers writing and publishing. “We want—and need—to make things.”

For a couple of years, now, we have known that we can’t make enough of our own things while we give so much energy to the work of others. We have had to cut substantially the time and attention devoted to our own writing, and mostly we have been glad to do it, determined to find a way to repay our own work in the end. We never did find that way.

If we could quit our jobs and earn that income publishing this magazine, we would take that deal in an instant. But that’s not the world we live in. For many, many months we have known this, but we couldn’t accept it until now. And thank goodness for that.

Every single issue of this magazine has been a wonder that transported and enchanted us. We can’t say we gloried in every moment. We read or edited or built the site at times while sick, exhausted, grieving—that’s the nature of any publication. But we damn well gloried in every word, every paired image and sound.

Four years and thirty-six issues: What an honor to publish our contributors. What a privilege to offer stunning work to our readers. We must use the word pleasure, too, always rolled out to accompany “honor and privilege,” but pleasure isn’t strong enough, nor is gratitude nor joy nor blessing. For once we find ourselves at a loss for words to express precisely what it has meant to keep this waterwheel turning.

Maybe this will do it: How many times does anyone ever fully achieve the glittering, half-glimpsed vision floating above; that winking, flirting piece of art we ache to manifest? For the three of us, precisely this once.

We will keep making things and so will you. We started this magazine with the image of the waterwheel and a Jean Rhys quote, and we will end in the same way, as we thank you for reading and submitting, and wish you and yours all the very best:

Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.

—Claire, Suzanne, Cheryl

September 1, 2024: Waterwheel Review will stay online for the foreseeable future. It remains as it looked for the final June 2024 issue.

Mary Warren Foulk

Corralling

by Mary Warren Foulk

November 2020

I remember running in circles, August grass crunching underfoot. Our parents’ boozy bickering and suburban neighbors barbecuing too close to the fence. “Faster,” he said. I was seven, maybe eight, following his command—anything for his praise. The summer had been too long, too lonely without him. “Faster,” he said. Raised to be a (tom)boy by our father, a southern debutante by our mother, I drifted in the tension between. My legs were strong. “Don’t look. Keep running.” What had he learned at that overnight camp? The one that took him so far away, eight weeks, an eternity. “Get ready.” For what? Legs – breath – attention – please … legs – breath – attention – please … the slow whistle of the lasso. My bare feet skimmed the brittle surface, then slightest burn of rope tracing shoulders, arms, legs. Ankles jarred together, locked in mid-air. An unforgiving lawn. I lay breathless and coiled.

Now, corralled. The girl in the white dress with bleeding knees.

Mary Warren Foulk’s work has appeared in VoiceCatcher, Cathexis Northwest Press, Yes Poetry, Arlington Literary Journal (ArLiJo, Gival Press), and Palette Poetry, among other publications. A graduate of the MFA Writing program at VCFA, Mary lives in western Massachusetts with her wife and two children. She is an educator, writer, and activist.