I have a new poem in the most recent issue of the New Ohio Review. I couldn’t get the link to work — pasting here with permission.
Sometimes I see her pressing her palms
against a windowpane in a house that is real
the way a house in a dream is real
until you start to describe it and all you can say is:
it was this house, only it wasn’t. It’s winter
and she likes to feel the cold entering her body.
Or it’s summer and it’s heat she’s after.
She wasn’t born, so she can’t die.
Sometimes there is a window but no girl,
and I am the one walking towards it.
Sometimes I see her peering in—
forehead against the screen of our back door—
or running ahead of me on a path that is real
the way a path in a dream is real, saying: this way, this way.