There's a purity about
falling snow, Yiska said.
She was standing by
the window of the locked

ward, snow was falling,
trees captured some in
their branches, fields
were blanketed. I stood

next to her, gazing out,
smelling soap, stale
perfume. She stood in
her dressing gown,

open at the neck, holding
a cigarette between two
fingers. See they have
allowed you to dress,

she said, looking at me.
Yes, but still no belt or
shoelaces, I said. Do you
blame them? After your

history of attempted hanging?
No, I guess not. She looked
back at the snow. I can't
even have a bath without

one of the nurses sitting in
there with me, she said, in
case I slit my wrists in the
bath again. Red water.

Something dramatic
about red water.  I sniffed
in her cigarette smoke.
Calming. I can't believe

he jilted me at the altar,
she said after a few moments.
Me standing there in my
white dress like some doll,

and he didn't show. I wouldn't
have jilted you, I said. It
wasn’t you I was going to
marry. But thanks anyway.

Undone. Undo-able. The past
like a locked door to a room
you want to go back to and
change the furniture around.

Her smoke entered my lungs.
I felt it ease me. If it wasn't
for the fact that the ward is
locked, I would be out there

in that whiteness, standing
there, arms outstretched,
mouth open, she said. If I
get low can I borrow the

belt of your dressing gown?
I asked. Only if you distract
the nurse when I bath next
time, she said, gazing at me

with her drugged up eyes.
Sure, each waits until the
other dies. There's a purity
about falling snow, she said,

gazing back at the scene
outside. I stared at her: the
thin white abandoned bride.