My Cardboard Balcony

Today, I ran my very last GirlSMART class with my ten second graders. And to be fair, it was pretty fun. The girls made bracelets for each other. They wrote nice messages to me and other teachers. They played "Two Truths And A Lie" while eating cupcakes. They completely wrapped up the literacy program, and next week will be their last week of school before the summer and before they all become third graders. I wish I could say that the whole experience was brilliant, and that I completely changed these girls' lives and got them back into reading full swing. I can't say that. Not with full confidence, anyway. I would be so happy if I positively influenced only one girl in that group of ten, because when it all came down to one thing, it was the students I worked with. And not just the GirlSMART students, either - I tutored several second, fourth, and fifth graders, though I wonder more with them if I made a difference. I was talking with my mom about my concerns to

Impromptu E-mail Poem #1 by Belinda Roddie As she stood, the watery aneurysm erupted from the yellow cornea spreading molten gold up and down her face as he turned off the car radio. Piano jazz, Erroll Garner – “For once in my life, I’m got someone…” She wasn’t someone who cried very often, especially not enough to fill the cracks in the sidewalk and stain her collarbone with salt-blackened circles, salty words filling her mouth with excess. She asked, “Why aren’t you looking at me?” and he pushed his skull deep into his fist, bone against bone, knuckle to knuckle, buried in leather cushioning that would always grow sticky in the summer. “Why aren’t you looking at me?” Sour repetition. He wasn’t impressed. The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since May 13th, 2011.

The lack of attention given to my particular bureau was alarming, to say the very least. And as such, I was swamped with enough paperwork to sink the Titanic without the necessity of a giant iceberg. As I hunched over my desk with all the poise and elegance of an angry cat, I listened to the sloppy shuffling of my boss's shoes as he walked over to me. "You got the reports done yet?" he demanded. "No," I scoffed. "Do I have six arms?"