My Cardboard Balcony

My Hands Are Cold by Belinda Roddie My hands are cold despite the summer heat, and I cannot find someone to warm them, to kiss them when they tremble, to rub them dry when a humid rain has soaked them through. My fingers usually are numb, so I can't feel much when I hold things or brush the surfaces of things. When I touched your face for the first time, I thought at last I knew what warmth was like. I thought that color would flood into my palms, reddening my skin and making me as sanguine as a child, hot and giggly and sweltering in June. Alas, you left me even colder still. Not even scorchers take away the chill.

You begin to falter in your orations, your ankles shaking beneath your bold, black boots. The crowds are waiting, fists still raised. They're waiting to chant your name. But to do that, they must hear of the Great Truth. And what is the Great Truth? That you control the seas like Poseidon with his trident. And your New Order shall form an empire that will not sink like Atlantis. But you are realizing, with the microphone squeaking from your hesitant breaths, that the tide is already pulling you and your regime in.