In the dream, you were always older,
moneyed, arranged. Every season,
every occasion came just as it should—
in order, in exhilaration. You were
as you were supposed to be.
This was always the same.
In the dream, you wept happiness,
not unease, at the prophecy—
the sum of all that longing unfolding at last.
Your belly ballooning
like a reddening fruit
in the soft, hot sun.
How unsettling to live a dream
not being the supposed self.
How strange to be just you—
spare heartbeat inside spare heartbeat.