My Cardboard Balcony

Midnight Snack by Belinda Roddie I swallow a spoonful of jam from the porcelain jar. Once the sweetness latches onto my throat like a sugary clasp, I stumble to the bed where her body is pulsing, all the blood moving from curled toes to holy halo. I kiss her, and she asks, "You've been eating in the middle of the night again, haven't you?" But I ignore her question. My distended stomach is happy enough with the small sampling of sustenance from a pulverized fruit. My lips skip across the curve of her shoulder. She lets out one small, sly giggle before rolling on her side. We are sleeping in a strawberry field, the sun dripping gold on our faces, the seeds still caught in the stains around our cuticles.

I went to the market for zucchini and strawberries, but I wound up with a porcupine instead. "How in God's name did you bring home a porcupine?" demanded my wife, as the spiny creature scurried to the corner and hid behind the cardboard box where we kept glass to recycle. "I'm not quite sure myself," I replied. "Come to think of it, it didn't seem like the same market I got to every week. It was on the same street and everything, though."