from Leafmold

"Lightning Limbs" by Christopher Woods
“Lightning Limbs” by Christopher Woods

Think of your mother and think of your father. What can you have against chaos that chaos can’t have against you? A river of breath, a valley of snakes, the shrill note of a hawk hunting on Christmas morning (no rest), indelible words we speak into one another’s eyes before sleep: the clockwork we feed these images to to keep the ticks and tocks distinct. A footprint made of ice turns your night backwards on itself, proves that the sun’s setting is perhaps merely just another occasion for reality. A part of home: year-old applewood ashes in the firepit’s belly. The word quotidian finds a road and walks it—sharp trees, the circling of birds, and a sense that one has ventured here before. I saw it coming. Don’t think for an instant that the river’s core won’t turn on you. The truth that no one cares is a raw spot under the saddle, a finger aimed at itself in a mirror, the angel that tears your house down brick by brick only to rebuild it by morning. The final month: drake goldeneyes bending their heads back in courtship display near perilous rocks.

By F. Daniel Rzicznek

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