Bradley K Meyer writes from Dayton, Ohio. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in DASH, Rougarou, Apeiron Review, Gravel, Black Heart Magazine & others. He is the author of a chapbook, Hotel Room (Vostok East Press, 2013). He edits Pouch Magazine, which lives at pouchmag.com.
No one goes to the ocean & says, ‘This looks just like Lake Erie.’ When it does. Shianne found a shell casing. Casey said she ought to keep it as a memento, ought to display it ominously with the words ‘The time I went to Lake Erie’—Sometimes I wonder if rivers are as frightened of heights as I am. I touched Glen Creek as it tumbled over the rocks. Waterfalls are a kind of organ in the body of a river. Waterfalls are events in a piece of water’s timeline.—I told Casey, in full view of the Chenango, how I’d blown snot on the bathroom wall of the horrible, probably never cleaned bar we’d just left because I wanted to contribute. I’d seen what they were going for. Casey said, ‘Thank you for sharing your secret with me.’—We skipped fireworks off the river. Amidst explosions, I asked JD if he liked grad school here. He said, ‘Yeah, it’s a good place to study. Since there’s nothing to miss out on, you never feel bummed at having missed out on something.’ That made sense to me.—Homeward bound, it rained in the Seneca Nation. But not very much. I saw incomprehensible road signs; the only Iroquois word I know for certain is ‘Ohio’ which means ‘Great River’ making the Ohio River really the Great River River. & a fine river it is.