by Hannah Silverstein

Some things you do not have to see
to know their meaning.

Some meanings you do not have to know
to see. Water, or ships in a crowded harbor. I dreamt

I was pregnant, and, also, a boy. I was a spy
on a mission in the Mediterranean. Imposter.

I did not watch the State of the Union. I clung
to the lifeboat, trying to remember

the country code
for my librarian, to ask

what to expect, if the baby
would live, or was a baby,

not a dream. The body moves and the mind
rationalizes after. I take a breath

because the air smells sweet—OK.
My chest squeezes cold; I must be afraid.

Yes? No? Google says
pregnancy in a dream

is sign of a growth. Is that good?
Manipulate the body with motion,

medicine, food, sex, but the mind
keeps thinking, what now?

I haven’t felt joy since—
How much is enough?


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Hannah Silverstein lives in Vermont and is a student in the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Her poems have appeared in LEON Literary Review, Whale Road Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Terroir Review, The Ekphrastic Review, SWWIM Every Day, and The New Guard.