F. Daniel Rzicznek

Issue 14 · Fall 2014

Unbending a river, God finds a brain of thorns, some papery snow, and several new uses for fire. These nights when the curse returns, we’re at odds in our close quarters—one minute bickering over television, the next pressing lips to the sound of bathwater moving through the pipes. Napoleon felt next to nothing in the moment nearest zero: his eyelids locked together, the descent of a gentle, gut-red glow. We have a road named for him here in Ohio. A city too. At the word kachina sleet makes chatter on metal awnings. Mallard weather, marsh weather, dog weather, red weather—an eyeless, regardless permanence menacing only when you refuse to meet it. Waste no time where magic has moved past without leaving a mark. All the invitees get rained on a bit by the handmade gutters, but—they accepted. As I push the boundary forward I come upon pieces of what I’d left behind. No news may be good news—what about new news?