by Katy Mullins

Her spine

protruding from her

hunched back,

each vertebrae a marble,

wanting her breath to inhale

enough for them both.


She sits on her bed

her palms open, receiving

the weight of the grief,

balanced in the creases of her hands

as though when she moves

it might spill forth like a wine glass

overflowing Pinot Noir.


The room is pink on one wall

and white on the others

as she tries to write

her goodbye in color

with flecks of paint on her jeans

from the splatter of her broken brush.


You think of the crib

she is trying to remember

you will never forget

the smell of her paint

and the feeling it leaves

settled heavy, just above the roof of

your mouth.

Katy Mullins is an American writer originally from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She recently graduated with a BA in English Writing. Her work has also appeared in Litro and In Shades Magazine. She currently resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma.