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Shivani Mehta
Where Snow White is laid to rest
Horses in the field and whippoorwill sing. The dwarves go on as before, each day spent chipping away with pickaxes. They don’t know what to do with the empty place at the table, the pile of half-knitted sweaters. Every evening, they gather near the glass coffin in the clearing, all they’re left with now are the details. The rise and fall of her chest, the sharp protuberance of hipbones, knees, blue and yellow flowers on her dress. Oak trees mottled with lichen, creaking in the wind. The tips of their cigarettes glow brighter than the fireflies at dusk.