My Cardboard Balcony

Sequence by Belinda Roddie black and white photographs juxtaposed with color a neon swathe of color revealing the guts of women who danced better than they fought and sang louder than they screamed you hang each frame by the edge of your bed your pictures like marionettes without guidance or direction memories seldom receive either they've already chosen their paths and can't be forced backward by Time's unsteady hands she can't keep her fingers still like frightened rabbits they skitter into the darkness of her sleeves I hope you find me at your drinking hole where we can dance and snap polaroids that render us white noise temporarily before we assume our old shapes once more if you take me to bed just remember that you don't have to tell your stories to me again I've heard them before they're lodged in my belly creating heat creating color among the black and white

There was a cold wind blowing against the stained glass window of the church, and no birds were singing; their whistling tunes would be drowned out by the organ player, who was practicing on a Monday evening, when only one person was in the confessional. The person in the confessional was young, weeping; in her hands she clasped a crystal rosary, trying to pray away a sinful part of herself.