My Cardboard Balcony

Say The Magic Word by Belinda Roddie Just say the magic word. I won't tell anyone you said it. Whisper it in my mangled ear, the one with a missing lobe where a mutt chewed the loose, loose skin. Hold my hand as you chant the spell. It has nothing to do with manners. It's a name spooned up with hot tomato bisque. It's a clove of garlic mashed into the shape of a pulp plate. It stings a bit when it's in your mouth, but the flavor is palpable and potent. You want to say the word. It's not "love" or "presto" or "yes." It's a threaded needle tipped with salt, a temptation dangling from a yo-yo string. You want to dent my chin with your teeth, lick my nose with two tines on a slippery fork. Just say the magic word. I will never leave your side.

"Now!" We burst through the bathroom door and there Harriet was, sitting quietly in the bathtub. There was no water running. No spewing fountains of bubble bath suds and foam. She was simply squatting in the cramped porcelain space, fully clothed, like the ferryman waiting to carry off the dead in his boat. I knelt down beside her. Her face was wet.