My Cardboard Balcony

The Dreadful Fog by Belinda Roddie The dreadful fog is thicker than a stew left to congeal across a drying bowl, and though I wander through it to find you, I fear I will be lost until I'm old and gray and decrepit. I hold the keys to many doors, but I don't know which ones, and I certainly can't be put at ease when the windows are shut, latches done and tight. The other shadows in the mist appear to know their way around, so I ask them for directions. They turn to wisps as soon as I let words fall. Will I die in this dreadful fog? Well, it's hard to say, since I no longer recognize the day.

You and I, we connected on a beyond a molecular level. We established something deep, something broad - like developing new spines under water when the pressure was pushing into our backs just right. We made new shapes out of our tongues, and eventually, we communicated with God. But God was sleeping in the sand on an island north of us, and his skin was charred from the lightning that grew fingers in the summer storm.