When they ask, “where do you see yourself in five years?”
The right answer is never, “here.” Nor is the right answer
the sea, though it’s what you’ve seen
with what yogis call the mind’s eye.
Your hem must rest between ambition and the knee
—just a suggestion of drive—
make them think of you with another 
life, maybe a window. Do not wax about the bees
whether it’s to keep, or paint, or save.
They want to be your nectary, pod coffee, 
Friday beer, hive mind. Don’t reflect
on how long five years can be,
that some marriages are shorter, or your mother’s fatal illness,
that a child who did not exist five years ago
can play the piano. Do not tally the weeks—
do not think about the 10,000 hours
the 32 bee-lifetimes, the floods, the new viruses. 
Your hands must rest between your lap and your hope
—just a suggestion of fortune—
make them think of you growing
out your hair and bringing muffins, the wrong answer
is never “here” and the right answer is never
the forest, though you’ve dappled in it.

Jennifer Bowering Delisle’s new collection of poetry, Stock (Coach House 2025), in which this poem appears, explores and upends stock imagery. Her 2023 collection of lyric essays, Micrographia, won the Robert Kroetsch City of Edmonton Book Prize and the Writers’ Guild of Alberta Memoir Award. She is also the author of Deriving, a collection of poetry (2021), and The Bosun Chair, a lyric family memoir (2017). She is on the board of NeWest Press and lives in Edmonton on Treaty 6 Territory.