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.





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