My Cardboard Balcony

Happy Anniversary, John by Belinda Roddie I try not to resort to cussing to serve as my main form of percussion, but in certain instances, my sailor's brain will not be tamed, and the salt spills from my lips along with hot sea foam, 'cause my dude, I am frothing at the mouth when it comes to remembering an anniversary about you. Five years since I cut you off. Five years since I decided I had had enough. Five years since I knew I was in trouble, but since my conscience was seeing double, I couldn't put my finger on it. But now I can comfortably say what I've wanted to tell you since I separated myself from the miniaturized Hell you built for me: Fuck off, John. Yeah. You heard me. Fuck off, John. Holy shit, that feels so good to say. And it took me forever to let those words spring from my coiled tongue. I had to roll them like marbles, treat them like glass. Delicately, delicately, so as not to break a soul. I know you couldn't always ...

To My Father by Belinda Roddie The moments you manage to smile in pictures are precious; your beard is Father Time's hue, but the blue glint in your eyes is timeless. Your Pendletons and Birkenstocks are the pinnacle of California style. Your UC Santa Cruz banana slug tee shirts: Heirlooms. I want one. When you worry, your eyebrows, above all else, give the game away. You are not subtle in the slightest, and maybe, ultimately, that's where I got my own candor from. Truth is often understated, but you and I expose our personal stories on our hands and faces. When we drink coffee and hot cocoa together, we will wince when the brew scalds our tongues, and we will tattoo our wishes and woes on our skin, the ink as fragile as the paper napkins we wipe our mouths with. You are nearly sixty-six, and our lives are spelled out in tripulets and triads, just like the patterns you trill on the slender neck of your flute. You treat her so gently, producing poetry ...

Idyllic Scene by Belinda Roddie Picture it: Christmas music warbling like a drunk but sleepy aunt, the simulation of a fireplace emitting the pretense of warmth while simultaneously not polluting the air. By the pin-up girl tree, a single wrapped present sits, waiting for a friend, all while the black cat has turned himself into a loaf on the couch. Here, we sip Amaretto and cider. We mix Irish cream and butterscotch schnapps. We eat chocolate covered peppermint cookies and potstickers fresh out of the coconut oil-greased pan. The blue blanket we cuddle over may not be weighted, but we can still relax. We can still celebrate the Yule. And best of all, we can finally figure out what it actually means to rest.