The Dream House
by Lydia Brown
Grief holds a tambourine in the eye of the window
over the kitchen sink. August. The day is going down.
In the next room—her room—the two of you,
mother and daughter, sleep in her bed.
There are horses in the field. By the field, a lake.
The heron walking—there is a heron here—
holds something in its throat. If not water, light.