LANDSCAPE POEM


    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

    people.






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.