My Cardboard Balcony

Oh, Heaven Help by Belinda Roddie Oh, Heaven help the stranded refugees, who stand with branded names upon the shore. They're called terrorists and monstrosities, not welcome in this country anymore. We gobble fear down like an extra meal, washing the palate with cold ignorance, as fizzy as a beer. With greater zeal then ever before, we restart the dance of prejudice, of targeting the souls of war-torn, ravaged families abroad. Yet still we act like Christians while hate pulls at our cheekbones, removing the facade. Yes, Heaven help the refugees at last, whose final hopes have suddenly been dashed.

Lawrence held the paper in his hands and couldn't help creasing it in his rigid grip. This was not possible. Ten years after leaving the family to seek a life in New York, his brother George - or rather, his sister Georgia, as she preferred to be called - was suing him and his parents for emotional damage. He wanted to shred the letter with his bare fingers, rip it into pieces, but something - he couldn't ascertain as to what, exactly - stopped him from doing so.

I Ate Candy Tonight by Belinda Roddie A chocolate-y confection after such a long day is such a nice way to spend the evening. Sugar cravings lost in swirls of milk and cacao. When the warmth has slipped between my lips, I catch a glimpse of paradise outside my suburban window.

Marsha and Tanya went camping for the week, and they decided to share a tent. Now, anyone with half a brain knew what this implied. But Robert, of course, was so dense that you couldn't hold a light bulb over his head without it burning out. Robert thought for sure that Marsha and Tanya were simply "gal pals." He didn't even bat an eye when Marsha excused herself to the bathroom one night to wipe lipstick off her collar after a particularly frisky moment with Tanya outside while they were sharing a cigarette.

To The Beautiful Souls by Belinda Roddie To the women who shave their chins and hide their estrogen in tiny bottles and needles in their purses - To the men who look at themselves in the mirror and feel discomfort toward the flesh that rises from their chests, and each night just wishing that their voices would drop a little further, a little faster - To those who get tired of being called "sir" or "madam" when neither of them works, and who hate having to see "Mister" or "Missus" on the mail sent to their door - To those who walk outside in a skirt and lipstick one day, and in a tailcoat and tie the next, who simply want others to respect them in both identities, or all three of them, or all four of them  - To those who have seen the binary not as a balancing beam, but instead as a tightrope they cannot straddle, or a railroad track where if they stand in the middle, a train will bowl them over - To those who have...

"What's your name again?" She winced, noticeably, but I don't think because she didn't like me asking. "It's Rachel." I smiled. "Right. I figured. Sorry." The waiter passed us two glasses of wine - one white, one red. Rachel took the red. "I thought it was Rachel," I said, "but I was second guessing myself. I remember seeing you for the first time..." "My hair was a lot shorter," she sighed. "I know." "And I hadn't shaved." I grinned. "I remember that, too."

This poem was actually co-written by me and a classmate of mine as part of an exercise in our content instruction class (we're both striving to be English teachers in the SSU teaching credential program). It is based off an actual apology I've made (repeatedly) to my fiancée and written as a poetic dialogue in a William Carlos Williams style. Enjoy. My Apologies by Belinda Roddie and Krista Robertson A: I just wanted to say, love, I’m sorry for yet again soaking the bathroom mat as I stepped out out of the shower tonight. Not that there’s really too much I can do about that, considering I can’t exactly dry myself off until I’m out of that Blessed Warm Mist. B: Dear, I look at the steam on the mirror and the Slow Cold Puddle on the floor I wonder: Should I mop? A: Shit, it got on the floor? My bad, babe. I’ll be more careful next time. Perhaps we should have a basin I step into every nigh...