My Cardboard Balcony

Stunt Double by Belinda Roddie Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the person who wrote these poems could stop conversation as soon as she entered a room. If she could make clocks put their ticking on hold, make time cease its forward marching, just to pay attention to the way she radiates in a dark space. I wonder how many more people would listen to the deluge of words and ideas if they were knotted up in a fisherman's net for prey to nibble on, sweet bait before she drags unsuspecting swimmers out of angry saltwater. Maybe they'd take her a little bit more seriously, laugh louder at the obnoxious jokes and punches of wordplay iced across the lingual cake, give more applause when she finishes her diatribe and steps away from the microphone with a sultry smile. I wonder what would happen if I hired someone to recite my poems for me. Someone with longer, less crazed hair than mine. Someone with higher cheekbones than mine. Someone with brighter, warm...

I thought I had been properly trained for this. I thought that all the years I spent as a conflict mediator would pay off. I thought I had the experience and mental capacity to handle this particular quarrel. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. I knew I was wrong as soon as I entered the room. The people facing off: Two older women, both with very gray hair. Both short, frumpy, wearing pinks and purples. And they were wielding switchblades.