Haunting and haunted, The River Won't Hold You interrogates loneliness and loss with quiet insistence. In poems fashioned at the difficult intersection of imagination and experience, Karin Gottshall seeks an uneasy solace in the mysterious gaps between them: "I tell myself I can be content with the pleasures / permitted ghosts," she writes in "Afterlife," "but my body wakes up / leaking saltwater, and won't let my ghost-self be." Poetic structure and the music of language offer a seductive repository for memory, philosophy, and pain. These poems are generous in both their formal approaches and their palettes of sound and silences. But Gottshall never settles for an easy or artificial solution to the questions her poems ask; the beauty of her work comes, instead, from the directness of her gaze and the images that gaze fixes itself upon: "Wide-open, staring eyes of the tiger / I drew and had to destroy because it wouldn't sleep."