My Cardboard Balcony

The Nail On My Little Toe by Belinda Roddie The keratin separated from its skin hinges, like a castle drawbridge torn from the stones of such a frail fortress. This is where my balance is meant to lie, yet here I am, using tissue to clean up the blood, dabbing at this tiny hero who once kept my ancestor's grip firm on a branch in the middle of the canopy. Such a beauty of leaves, a ceiling with no need for a chandelier, just the gold sprinkling across green as you try to hold yourself together, piece by piece, digit by digit.

The woman in the red coat sits down at the corner of the outside bar, where the sun hits her shoulders at such an angle that the velvet ripples like Moses' Red Sea. She crosses one leg over the other, showing off the silver buckles on her Italian shoes, and orders a drink strong enough to knock out a giant with an alcohol problem.