My Cardboard Balcony

Our Manifest Destiny by Belinda Roddie It used to be that you went west for rivers that dyed your fingers gold when you dipped your dry hands into them, for hills that glittered under both the sun's chariot and the moon's cradle, and for valleys untouched by the hooves of tamed steeds and the wooden wheels of ambition. You went west when you wanted a handful of acres of land to build your house on, till your soil on, the smell of fertility lingering like Mother Nature's rising bosom against your cushioned nose. You looked out at the crest of the ocean as if you were honoring the foamy crown of a great god, who watched passively over you as you grew your children's futures out of a bag of seeds you brought with you on the long journey over to the coast. You slept in the hulls of ships that stank of urine, vomit, and desperate dreams as stale as whiskey caught in your old man's throat. You got your knuckles stamped with ink that stained you fo

There was honey on her apron, and there was sugar in her hair. The pot glowed with sticky sweetness, and the smell was everywhere. I inhaled it through one nostril, and I found myself in bliss, and I swooped my little baker up, and we exchanged a kiss.