My Cardboard Balcony

In Search Of Discipline by Belinda Roddie In spite of everything they taught me - every reminder, every motto, every ink stamped and telegraphed Courier font opus ordering me to stitch a zipper on both corners of my lips - I lost my temper again. Lost my mind in a confined space, a makeshift office with a costume closet where I could hide and pretend to be anyone else from any other point in time. At first, I felt twinging, then seething. Bubbling, hot, reaching boiling point faster than I thought, as if I was standing atop a mountain peak, screaming down to the village below, "I think this is actually a volcano I'm perched on! Run! Flee! Save the women and children!" But I didn't erupt. The anger was quiet. It didn't yell, or howl, or slam its already bruised fist against a desk or glass coffee table. It didn't string profanity together like a candy necklace that would get too stale to eat in record time. It used to be, when I was ...

Walter plays the cello, while Zelda plays the flute. The cellist looks best in a floral dress, and the flutist is good in a suit. They perform conciertos together, to filled up houses and halls. And once the applause has finally died down, they celebrate at galas and balls. They drink champagne and smile before going home at first light. And they'll practice their latest pieces until the dawn mutates into night.

Balancing The Scale by Belinda Roddie Distrusting my body, I fed it hot mint tea and cold shrimp, added popcorn like I was being entertained, then washed it down with water and guilt. I imagined everything I ate that day descending like stones into my stomach, churning and spinning like the meals had been stuffed into a blender, as if the puree setting made the weight in my gut lighter. I do this a lot, actually - projecting that mental image, that movie set to music with heavy bass. The symptoms I've been taught to call excess and gluttony settle into a dark cavity, are picked up by a hurricane, and then disintegrate. I pretend that I am now empty. Not brimming with the light and sustenance that calories are meant to provide. I call myself a foodie, but I wish that also meant I could look good while still being one. When I describe my shape and size, I joke that I'm, "built like a brick" - squished into a compactor and spat out like a p...

The Worst Thing by Belinda Roddie The worst things I've ever done: A numbered list. The kind you tuck away into the confines of a Google Doc. Everyone has to write a good list poem, and not surprisingly, mine happens to be adequately self-deprecating. So let's begin: 1. Forgot to complete my math homework. 2. Broke the yolk in three eggs meant for my wife's breakfast. 3. Missed multiple chances to keep my tongue from waging temper tantrums. Same with my fingers; I can't help getting involved in a good old-fashioned duel on social media. 4. Ran away from home, though I didn't get very far. I just wound up in the park with a pack of cigarettes, and I smoked two of them before throwing the rest of their lovers away. 5. Tore the side view mirror off my car when I was sixteen. 6. Caused a four-car accident when I was twenty-one. The man three cars ahead of me had decided that he wanted to take the road less traveled ...

Watch me, son: I'll show you how it's done. Retrieve the book, scan it in the machine. Then you get to take it home, but only for a few weeks, and then you have to bring it back. So read it quickly, my boy - but savor it. Enjoy the adventure on the pages. Once you're done, we can return it for another tome. See, this is one of the last havens we have in this small, humble town - a chance to be surrounded by books without needing to pay an arm and a leg for them.