My Cardboard Balcony

Is It Winter Yet? by Belinda Roddie Out west, it doesn't really snow, but the spray of the bay keeps the air frosty enough to make white shadows out of your breath. There's detail in the red and gold leaves dangling like limp hands outside the window. They tattoo their fingerprints onto the glass; their veins bulge outward, revealing the road map of their fragile, impermanent bodies. You wear slippers with your bathrobe and drink tea that's strong enough for a god. I'm eager to slip into your arms, like a bundle for you to carry up to bed. But I'm not swaddled - I'm swathed in abandoned stardust, and that, unlike the chill outside, is too hot to touch without gloves. Out west, if you get closer to the mountains, the blizzards begin in earnest, and you get lost in the tendrils of white and gray whiskers on an angry old man's face. He tries to sleep, but just like you, he is shaken by the insomnia of the season. And you drink you

I don't believe in the righteous ones: They always end up wrong in the end. They always lie and cheat and steal, and they always harm the women. The righteous ones are ugly both inside and out, and they know it, too. They wear suits in order to hide their black and twisted hearts. They drink champagne so the bubbles ease the pits of wrath in their stomachs. I don't believe in the righteous ones; they were never righteous to begin with.