My dreams are telling. I am loving you and my dreams aren’t stopping. You are lovingly telling
me to look away. You are loving someone else. She might be your wife. Or you might not tell
me anything. Sometimes you bend. I mean every day I am harrowed when you bend. Your one
shoulder slopes down to hold the hand. Your son is three. And your shoulder slopes to hold his
hand. You cross the street. Every day you cross the street. I want to bear your child. I want
my own version of you to behold always. I want proof. I want to birth the evidence. Your one
shoulder slopes and I want to birth the evidence. You put him in the car seat and I am harrowed
every day. You bend and my dreams are not telling. The world is getting smaller. The world is
always smaller than I want it to be. I want the world to even smaller than that. If it has to be
small, I want it to be just your size. And fit into me. Like bending. Harrowed. Like sloping down.
Like proof. She might be your wife. Wife might just be another person. And together you make
more people. It is the whole world. Except for dreaming. But we don’t have to tell. I cannot look
away because away is in the dark and I hate fumbling for the unknown switch. Every day you
cross the street. Every day I am dreaming. Every day she might be your wife. Your son’s hand
is so small. Every day is so small. Your wife is so small. My dreams are so small. The car
seat is so small. Your shoulder is so small. Your jaw is a crooked landscape and the world is
infinitesimal. Sometimes I type “Where can I find more of you?” into the search engine so it will
retrieve other people seeking more of someone. I want to put him in the car seat. I want to be
your wife. I want to be so small. I want to hold his hand. I want to bear your dreams. I want to
dream your evidence. I want to fit into me. I want the light to be on. I might be your wife. She
might be dreaming. She might be infinitesimal. She might just be another person. But we don’t
have to tell. She might cross the street. She might not survive. He might outgrow the car seat.
Your shoulder might not slope. I might not be harrowed someday. I might not dream someday.
Someday, you might not cross the street. His hand is always getting bigger. A crooked
landscape is so harrowing. Where can I find more of you? I promised I wouldn’t ask for your
proof until I turn 30. I might not make it. I might ask the question too soon. Thirty is so far away.
I might not dream your crooked landscape. Someday I might not cross the street. I might not
make it. The world is so small. I hate fumbling. Can you bend? Can you fit into me? Can you
be another person? Can you be infinitesimal? Can you be a world? Can you slope slightly
down? Can you put him in the car seat? Can you leave the light on? Can you drive like that? My
dreams are so small. They might not survive. The world is so small. She might not cross the
street. Can you re-imagine me? Imagine me as something else. Something not so small.
Something someone else sees? Something dreams a crooked shoulder. Everything might not
make it to a hand. But we cross the street. Where is there to fumble? I might be your wife. I
might be a landscape. A landscape might be shifting. A landscape might be a person. I might
be shifting. A landscape might be earthen. Nobody might remember us this way. I might forget
you. You might never have known me. We might not recognize a landscape. A car seat might
be too small. Or a hand, unfamiliar. We might have dreamed each other. Or we might be other
CHELSEA KURNICK’s grades suffered her second semester of 11th grade for two reasons: 1) Her first boyfriend broke up with her and 2) She started writing poetry during class. Though her first attempted poems weren’t any good, her first poetic inspiration (the devastation of love) has never left her. These selections reflect some of her more-recent efforts. Chelsea earned a B.A. from the University of California, Riverside, in Linguistics where she was the most recent Editor-in-Chief of Mosaic: Art and Literary Journal.