in response to “The End of it All” by Ben Loory

And he raises his arms to the flames. This was me when I was learning that she had disappeared. When I opened up to speak a ramble or a jumble of words and a mountain came sliding towards us. Where do I put this? I was asking of myself, with no answers. The mini-fridge had come unplugged so the ice melted and the door bled a leak that ran into the flooring. This was my fault, all of it. I was down on my knees toweling, talking over my shoulder, not knowing there was only a hollow of sky where her body had been. What color hair will she have? I was asking. What color eyes? There were bits of ice that hadn’t melted but instead broke from the cave of the freezer and fell into its bowels. Ice sculptures jagged and resounding, turning to rivers on its shelves. How big will her hands be to hold with? These were the questions I had. Then I had no more questions. When I turned to her, the floor mostly dry or dry enough, there was no one left. We were faded and she was gone. I thought I saw a bird hovering above, floating in the space that was her when she was, but it was ice coming down, falling into this, and I no longer felt on fire.