My Cardboard Balcony

A Poem's Symmetry by Belinda Roddie I am made of the bubbles floating from children's bottles, the soapy essence of laughter and lightness, my frame as crisp and airy as an autumn leaf fighting fruitlessly to travel in a straight line. I move in curves - no corners, no edges, no beginnings and no ends, the shape of the world and the density of a book's page, still fluttering beneath a weight of words. It is easy to get lost in language, but if you fit your dreams neatly into a balloon, or a beach ball, or simply a bubble - whether or not you can tie a string to them and carry them with you - you are lifted into a different dimension, given new laws of gravity. The text becomes the tail of a kite, and you are listless, reckless, and free.

"Impressive sweep," remarked the coach as the team sat down for beer and pizza. "I certainly didn't expect all of you to step up so high. Granted, I know how good you are, but...four games won with high scores against the same team ain't nothing to sneeze at." I rolled my eyes and drank deeply from my pint. Coach Keaton always had a hard time dealing with the fact that running a girls' team didn't mean extra coddling was involved. I flexed my bicep at my teammate, and she grinned a goofy grin.