Tonight's Poet Corner: Percussive Denouement

Percussive Denouement
by Belinda Roddie

Almost exactly ten years ago,
I wrote about stream-of-consciousness
nostalgia at only twenty-two years.
White Russians were still my go to
at bars like Paul's in Orange. Shervin
and I don't speak much these days.

I stirred in a healthy seasoning
of pseudo-enlightenment about poetry
as if I, a gay enby with the complexion
of mayonnaise, could hold words
in my hands as comfortably as my
cats before they squirmed for escape.

The illusions I thought I wove
were merely fraying threads on a sweater
(they still are. But at least the fabric
is still mostly intact). I do not
create illusions. I am fooled by them.
My stories are influenced by weird dreams.

And I have gained more weight
in ten years. And I have seen
more heartbreaks in ten years. And I
know panic attacks like old friends at bars
where I can barely stomach dairy,
unlike ten years ago. The decade has been
shaky, achy, riddled with holes. Termites
and bullets didn't cause my wounds. But
for others, it helped them tell stories.

While I
was always lucky
to breathe. And I still do.
And I maintain the privilege,
like my stories,
of being alive.