My Cardboard Balcony

Honey Skies by Belinda Roddie My mother made a mountain. She shaped the slopes with raw hands, the gashes prominent on her white skin, her black skin, her bruised skin, her skin as combed and puckered as the honey skies dripping sweetness above our heads.

The temple near the outskirts of town had been abandoned for fifty years, primarily because no one was able to enter it. The doors were heavy and bolted fast, and not even the toughest of demolition could seem to break them down. It was said that the gods themselves had constructed the building for their own self-indulgent worship. I guess it made sense, then, that the divine had created alloy too stubborn to listen to any reasonable request from a wrecking ball.