King of the Mountain

By: Kristin Marie

The winter light fights through dirty windows

A mattress propped against the wall becomes a steep slide

My siblings and I whoop and scream,

slide and climb, pausing to wipe tears—

a knee too close to the nose, a twisted ankle

The other side of the mattress

has a hole the size of a large pizza

Mom fell asleep while smoking a cigarette

What if she hadn’t woken up?

We slide and climb, climb and slide

The sky outside darkens

Mom’s not home right now

We stop and sit on the floor, legs like jelly

All we hear is our ragged breath

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Kristin is a writer from New England. Her work has appeared in South Florida Poetry Journal, Lunch Ticket, and The Seventh Wave.