by Carrie Close

outside her window, spiderweb branches crawl
across a darkening sky — the cold, wet, white
makes faces in the glass — the light bulbs
emit their white light — the radiator creaks, like bones
snapping, and the dry hot keeps pumping, but
it isn’t getting any warmer, and she keeps flipping
the switch in her mind, to no effect, while Winter
whispers softly in her ear, sleep now
with his cold, wet lips

Carrie Close was born and raised in the mountains of central Maine, where she is currently attending the University of Maine at Farmington for Creative Writing. She speaks French semi-fluently, has grandiose visions of becoming a famous writer, and wishes she lived in a perfect world, where she could do nothing but travel and write. She has previously been published in KYSO Flash, The Halcyone Literary Review, and Miracle Monocle, among others.