# _

WHO YOU ARE, WHO AM I

// melissa cundieff

The daughter worries the father

will turn from himself

into someone else as he drives

across the endless state

where he was raised. (The father

and the daughter can only meet

in dream.) From the passenger seat,

the daughter's eyes snap at grasses.

It isn't clear if the father hears

when she asks do you know

where you're going, do you know

the year. The daughter awaits

the father's response. On and on,

the field a flat audience. Parting

the weeds, the daughter's eyes

repeat, do you know who you are,

who am I. The sky outgrows

the windows — the father's hands

steady the wheel, his forward

stare, the car's invisible line

bisecting air.

My daughter worries

I'll turn from myself

into someone else as I drive

across the endless state

where I was raised. (My daughter

and I can only meet

in dream.) From the passenger seat,

her eyes snap at grasses.

It isn't clear if I hear

when she asks do you know

where you're going, do you know

the year. She waits. Anyone,

anyone. On and on, the field

a flat audience. Parting the weeds,

her eyes repeat: do you know

who you are, who am I.

The sky outgrows

the windows — my hands

steady the wheel, my forward

stare, the car's invisible line

bisecting our air.