Isabella McKenzie-Sanchez

A Letter For

We walk into switchless rooms believing

the light will come as the door closes, we climb the stairs at night

with no sense of what is behind.

Perhaps there is no great miracle, not two moons at once, not a river that flows

through a flame

But ah! the light above, warm enough to bathe a baby

if I could sew these words into a pillow and lay against them, I would

Turn

this newborn light

so fresh the birds wail it free

outside, the cars go by so fast

they sound like water

you open the upstairs windows

against the world,

the back of your chair comes too soon.

But here in the house’s shadow

a wild, anonymous herb grows

through the grate in the patio

down the path of the bin's morning commute,

like a child catching breath at the edge of a pool,

the roots delicately wriggling

but the chin strong.

It is, when picked, without meaning to be

safe to eat.

Echo Chamber

all that stops a queue of sorrow is

a frayed 

             edge, a hand

weak against a lockless 

door, 

        outside, one knock sighs, falls away

I want to text you HAPPY NEW YEAR!

but it is a Tuesday in May

I will myself 

beyond the broken 

door

  coming to you better

like a pea 

 from its skin: undone

full and green