My Cardboard Balcony

Violet by Belinda Roddie It wasn't just the flowers we picked, or the amethysts we collected, or the wine we drank, or the eggplant we sliced into thin enough strips to fry to a crisp and crunch on during a hot Gulf afternoon. It was also my new button-up shirt, your hairpin, and your lipstick. A color choice some might call "bold" was simply natural to you. We knew that the sun above us, while giving us life, would also grant the world as we knew a permanent, scorching sleep. Red to orange to yellow, though who knows if green grass would ever grow again under a sky that was no longer blue or indigo. But for now, we had the violets. In buckets, in barrels, wrapped in ribbons like gifts for nymphs, tucked away behind ears and hiding secrets in their fragile necks of vases, muted forever. And growing wild. Born wild. And meant to wither in their wildness. We always had the violets.

I Hate It by Belinda Roddie Oh, so this is why Missouri's nickname is Misery. Gotcha.

Indigo by Belinda Roddie It was her suit on her wedding day, the painted roses in her hair. It was the new comforter for their bed and the new cushions on their chairs. It was the sky during their honeymoon among the trees and under the stars. At least, they were among a chorus of something other than steel blue cars.

Twenty Hours Later by Belinda Roddie I'm in Michigan. I'm tired. More driving tomorrow. Oh, boy.

Kansas by Belinda Roddie The road doesn't curve, and mountains don't rise. It's where false prophets live and real love dies.

Help The Girl Scouts by Belinda Roddie Be right back: Going to buy all the cookies.

A Mile High by Belinda Roddie Y'all. I'm in Colorado. How the fuck did that happen.