Tonight's Poet Corner: Heir To
Heir To
by Belinda Roddie
Back in front of a microphone,
I pretend I am
recording my thoughts into
a crystal ball that hovers in front
of my bed, the canopy above
my head laden with gold and crimson
thread. In another room, my mother
sleeps, her curls limp against soft,
decorate pillows, while her throne,
for now, lies bare and without a queen,
and here I am, bracing for the inevitable,
preparing for the onslaught, hoping
that once the tidal wave hits, I can
improvise and teach myself how to
swim on the fly.
by Belinda Roddie
Back in front of a microphone,
I pretend I am
recording my thoughts into
a crystal ball that hovers in front
of my bed, the canopy above
my head laden with gold and crimson
thread. In another room, my mother
sleeps, her curls limp against soft,
decorate pillows, while her throne,
for now, lies bare and without a queen,
and here I am, bracing for the inevitable,
preparing for the onslaught, hoping
that once the tidal wave hits, I can
improvise and teach myself how to
swim on the fly.
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