Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-three
April 2017
from Leafmold
F. Daniel Rzicznek

Tomaselli’s birds wait everywhere for me wearing their faces like masks, strutting among the evergreens and among the pills we take, hoping for indifference. Tomorrow, houses will open before us, empty of all but dust and light, but tonight we’re under the heavy covers, listening as a branch of thunder and rain swings west out of Indiana—the wind, you wake me to say, is already picking up. Empty water: parts for no one. Fire a gun at the river— it will absorb it. Urinate in the same river—absorbed again. One two three, one two three, one two three. Wolves snickering at you in the shade of a mossy dawn. Thoughtless, the politics of vampires—the ceasefire lingered decades. I’m reading Milosz and all the while the first mosquito of summer has been judging my blood. A hound and a crane are tangled together by endless rhythms of wind, their conversation a silence both mystic and false, trapped in the patterns of a gilded page. It’s a shame I automatically want to know what it means.

About F. Daniel Rzicznek

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