In the house, there was another house

and then another —

one made from a box used

to deliver her grandmother’s microwave,

the second to ship her

father’s poetry books, and a third 

only she could see.

There was a little bed

where the little seal and little cat

took long restorative naps

and teacups that never failed

to fulfill their promise.

You see

the world where

she lived once?
Where she

lives now?

My phone slumps

in front of me

like an exhausted

cloud.


The full title of this poem as Alex intended it is "Coronavirus Poem #3: Always Another House", but we shortened it to avoid confusion with our series titling. 

We’re running a Coronavirus poem once a week, after a call for submissions. You can read more information, and a listing of the poems, here.