My old father's world is going into cabinets, which he rearranges constantly in the air, wanting us to organize whatever it is. He reaches his hands in the air, while we hold his blankets down. His mouth is open wide, as always, horrible sounds coming from it. chapters, he says. We took care of and , now it's time for and . But they're out of order. He says they always get things mixed up. I ask who and he says God. I know what he means. But I don't see the cabinets, or know how to put the chapters he's talking about today into the drawers that are invisible, floating, above his bed he's been in for a year, me sitting next to him, becoming a spinster. My love went away long ago, left me sitting here. I don't see the chapters. But I can make them up.
. We die.
. We become like snow.
. We drift.
. We become the thing you forget, turning crystalline, sparkling, clean, and fresh, and melt away.
. we drift like snow and die and you forget you ever loved us you thought we were beautiful we want to die we dressed like snowflakes for Christmas you thought we were beautiful you went away, felt like dying we used to melt together, be one flowing water we were like beautiful crystals I am dead to you. So I am dead to me. I am you, melted snow. I am no longer we. but you don't care.
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online. She is the editor of Exclusive Magazine, runs Experimental Writing at http://experimentalwriting.weebly.com/ and is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press.