i. the sound of a lawn mower plowing grass somewhere distant in the neighborhood.
garages left wide open, tricycles and rakes hanging midair. the morning dew, coupled with
the scent of dead petals; confused with the fog sauntering through our drained canal. the
fence beyond which we must tiptoe over bodies so as not to wake the sleeping children.
ii. fluorescent-bright kitchen lights. we eat eggs with salt and talk of coincidences. i look
outside, see someone kneeling. see someone with their hand outstretched, stroking a stone,
over and over again. the wind wafts through the window, carrying the scent of fresh-turned
dirt and what’s beneath it.
About the Author
Isabella Jia Dunsby is a poet from Seoul, South Korea. She has been previously published in Apprentice Writer, Polyphony Lit, and Cathartic Youth Literary Magazine. She enjoys jazz music and taking walks with her dog, Lily.
Find her at: poemsforpatients.com
