The icebox had done it again. She opened it to dig out a few cubes for her tea, and there it was—the
Vesuvius of frost. Puzzling how it could happen so fast in spite of the oscillating fan blowing watery
air out the window—like love in a dime novel, or murder. She thought leaving it alone one more day
would let it turn into frost-navel, closed in around itself and her frozen peas, an omphalos of ice, a
frost syndicate burning everything it touched, a glacial puzzle-box she’d never solve no matter how
many dinner knives she levered and broke chipping away at it. She thought about Tecumseh before
battle and Tecumseh signing a treaty neither the frost-white British, nor the frost-white Colonials
would honor, about Tecumseh and whether she could remember if the Shawnee drank iced tea in
modern times. Her shirt stuck to her like frost, yet not. Then the radio went to cicada-static and the
dogs everywhere slept.
Devon Miller-Duggan has published poems in Rattle, Shenandoah, Margie, Christianity and Literature, Gargoyle. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Delaware. Her books include Pinning the Bird to the Wall (Tres Chicas Books, 2008), Neither Prayer, Nor Bird (Finishing Line Press, 2013), Alphabet Year, (Wipf & Stock, 2017).