Mama, you’ve been in this bed—
the covers molding to your chin—for weeks
and brother wants a bottle but I can’t
reach the cups and your face flushes when
I stand on the kitchen counter
and your tears are up to the ceiling
and I don’t want to drown.

Papa has left again with the wallet
from your purse and the last-standing
television and I’ve wept for weeks
and can’t swallow anymore. And I
wonder if the ceiling changes the longer
you stare at it—if you’re lifting yourself
up and out from here, far over

the broken furnace, the empty fridge,
the pawnshop wedding rings and into
a city where the sun always hits the backs
of your arms, transforms you
into someone worth saving, a golden girl. 

– Mallory Rader