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One Poem  

Brandon Melendez

Room for Joy

A house of mirrors
          wearing no one’s dead

face—a vacuum of stars
          that never supernovas

instead pearls into the pupils
          of the child I once was

who thought miracles
          had my mother’s

voice, that is—until
          the accident, until the car

collapsed in on itself,
          I still don’t know how

she made it out—
          but that night I prayed

to a god I needed
          to believe was listening

to never let me love
          someone in the past tense

because that day in school
          I learned if you hold someone

at just the right angle
          in front of two mirrors

they go on forever.