My Cardboard Balcony

Cat Owner's Musings by Belinda Roddie My hand on a warm tummy, I contemplate how I, mere mortal, deserved this furry god on his white pearly tower. But he is sweet, and he is merciful, and he is very, very cute.

Afternoon Snack by Belinda Roddie She served me smoked salmon and black pepper potato chips, crème fraìche and lemon atop the gift from the sea, blanketing my tongue with a warm, edible foam - a melted cloud from the sky, a discus of sweet and sour snow, soaked into each ridged red mountain range while the crunch of the dry and spicy earth lay for the taking below.

I Am Not My Father by Belinda Roddie They clothe me in cinders and dust; I am draped with the ashes of my ancestors. They descend in the shape of cloak that hides my face from all things summer and winter. They speak to me when I am with loved ones, keeping silent when I am alone. I taste stone when they chant their regrets and bitter chocolate when they reminisce on love. On love, the earthy texture of held hands or a kiss on brimstone - on brittle bone and palmed amethyst, but the colors are dimmed, the colors are dimmed, the color are dimmed in cinders and dust. Now I shed the visage of a descendant. My name is broken into tiny pieces, marble recycled into mosaic, flint igniting a flame of my own forging, flint igniting an age old desire to be' free of chill brought by kings I am tied to, so I break the frail rope that still binds me, and I slip into snow where no one can find me.