Tonight's Poet Corner: Indecision

Indecision
by Belinda Roddie

At first, I was a little concerned
about you - how many times you counted
the pencils on your desk, how much you
paced until you left tracks like tire treads
on the carpet. Somehow, I knew that

you were still brooding over the final
decision that you claimed to have made
only to throw some serious shade on your
own convictions, using one crooked branch
arm to block out the sun. I told you this

would be good for you. You've dipped
your hands in so many pots now that we
can't serve an entire kitchen; the food is
tainted by your own anxiety, stripped
like your own skin, sloughed off in

hot water that you agreed to submerge
yourself into - a scared submarine. Let me
demonstrate: A frightened shadow in a secluded
corner of a room, quiet as a catacomb, where
all the skulls are plastic with their empty

eye sockets turned toward the nearest wall.
You claim to have a rapt audience when there
isn't really any observation of your tantrums,
no spectators at all. It is a marvel that you can
still keep a level head on a cracked fulcrum

neck. You swivel it around you so many times
that I'm surprised you're not dizzy. Your hands
are pressed flat on the whiteboard, picking up
ink on your palms, fingers drumming out the
rhythm of a poem. Now this is what you love,

this is what makes you feel at home. You've
paid your dues in a studio that doesn't feel like
it belongs to you anymore, because all the posters
you've taped up can't hide the scars, and the wailing
and grinding of teeth give you headaches. Truth

be told, I'm not sure why you've convinced yourself
that walking away from a burning building implies
that you poured gasoline on the fire. There is nothing
selfish about self-preservation. When you've pulled
enough souls out of the pit, you tend to forget

that yours is still huddled in the darkness, comfy
as can be. You didn't leave enough oil for your
lantern so that everyone else could light their lamps
and be able to see their way out of the maze. I'm
offering you a golden thread, love: You ought

to follow its glint all the way out to morning.
You know there's a sunrise after what never
turns out to be an endless night. Sit a while,
collect your breath like salt on the sea. Go back
to measuring out graphite if it finally
puts you at ease.