“Daughter” by Kaitlyn W

She picks up the dress
that hangs on the bedpost
drapes it about her
and twirls
like a drunken ballerina.

Closing her eyes
it smells of smoke
but she can
only smell the rose of her mother's skin.
stepping over emptied bottles
she slides on the fire engine heels
and moves her hips the way her mother does
when she’s talking to the plumber
who's married.

Kaitlyn W lives and writes in a small apartment just outside of Boston. She enjoys looking at pugs on the internet, watching critically acclaimed eovies from the eighties on Netflix, and a nice bottle of wine. Someday she hopes to be churning out novels like that Twilight lady. msmalarkey.com.