My Cardboard Balcony

Empty by Belinda Roddie She thought she loved her. She merely loved the idea. 

by Belinda Roddie In her cupped hands, there are either lily petals or white rose petals. I cannot tell from a distance. It's too dark in this misty forest. Why is it always misty? The residents here play the drums only when the shadows come. They do not dance. They plod. They march. They memorize their dirges. Somewhere, the mouth of a yew opens, and a unicorn drinks from it, and you are ready to sing: I LIKE TO PRETEND THAT I AM ONE OF THEM. Moss has always smelled like my mother's hair. She never dances. Her boots are just like what the shadows wear. THIS IS NOT FATE, she reminds me when the sun finally weaves its fingers through the canopy. IT IS REPETITION. This week's Storyteller was based off a poem I wrote while modeling image banks for my sophomore students. Credits for the photograph go to Tyler Flint.

Numbing by Belinda Roddie Lozenges are like candy to Little Randall. So be careful.

I've been back teaching on campus for two weeks, and it's already felt like two months. Don't get me wrong - I'm so glad to be back. I love my students, and I love being able to socialize again. But I am seriously not used to it, and I am tired constantly. It also doesn't help that every time my allergies act up due to the smoky haze that is California, I think I have COVID. I'm planning on getting tested on Monday no matter what. Not taking any chances, no matter how small they may be, in regards to a potential breakthrough infection. I'm planning on a super relaxing weekend where it's okay for me to do nearly absolutely nothing. I'm very grateful to have that rest time, as I know many others don't. In writing news, getting to model poetry to my students is always a blast. Today, however, I was called a show-off by one of my students for writing three poems while they were tasked with writing one. Not a show-off, just...a person with a lot of ex...

And Sometimes, It Rains by Belinda Roddie Good neighbors serve stale sweets We make ends meet on dead end streets The street lamp has flickered for five years. We still haven't figured out its Morse code - not yet, anyway. And no one will fix it. Some say ghosts have set up shop there. And perhaps they sell candles with just the hint of a cinnamon scent. Outside what was once a jazz café, a busker plays His violin has seen way better days Two coins in his snapback. That's it. The drunken keyboardist at the BART station makes way more. Would someone tell him to play something other than, "Chopsticks," please? He doesn't know chords or personal accord of any kind Hey, got a light? Nah, man. Haven't seen light since she left. Damn, we got a new Edgar Allan Poe over here! Okay, raven boy, do you got a fucking light? The bakery's still open but it's always cold and the bread's always stale and the owner's eyes are always filled with fog Nothing soun...

Twice A Fool by Belinda Roddie He had both the plague and was naked. Double exposed.

A Single Sip by Belinda Roddie A single sip from the fountain of youth reverted me back to thirty years old again, and while I felt amazing, truth be told, I was quite frightened of the bold and instant transformation. I had been seventy-two, and now the gray was gone from my hair, wrinkles all non-existent, and body spry and free despite nights long, counting stars when I couldn't fly to them. Alas, my love did not drink from the pool, and so she remained old and dry like stems of lavender. She still was beautiful, but she would pass into an endless sea, while I'd live with fear of mortality.