My Cardboard Balcony

Anonymous Fever Dream by Belinda Roddie I feel sick. Head aches. Dial spins. I strap a full wine bottle to a gurney, give it mouth to mouth, resuscitate it, give it new life in the form of stomach bile mixed with toffee cocoa. You check my forehead. Your hand is scalded.  The skin melts and turns to caramel. Sticky on my brain. Drop down. The fetal position is a human's natural element, where she feels safest, the flame the most comforting blanket. I order a grilled cheese sandwich at a diner. The diner is my kitchen. You are my waiter. You tell me there are no grilled cheese sandwiches. I cry. Poor hungry soul. I want toxic medicine in the shape of a goblet. You don't let me drink from the honeycomb. In bed, I asked you for a flask. You gave me an empty one. I thought I was supposed to piss in it. Bronze ire as the throat swab was administered. Tests came back negative. I still dreamed. I still dream. I still plead. Give me brandy. Give m

"So are we going to bury him?" "Yeah. Did you bring the shovel?" "Shovel and a bucket." "Bucket for what?" "Flowers." Her throat sounded like it was closed up. "Roses. He always liked those." The dust was flying around the meadow. I wrinkled my nose to keep from sneezing. I lowered the body onto the warm grass. The slight breeze ruffled his golden fur. "Well. Let's do this."