In Every Universe, You by Jen Gupta
Do you believe
in parallel universes?
Do you believe in one
in which you are not the one,
in which we are not one,
in which he is the one
at the end of the aisle
like he promised he’d be?
One in which he didn’t call,
didn’t tell me not to come after
my bags were packed,
tickets purchased, life
a polite mirror waiting
for his reflection?
Do you think
in that universe I’d be
happy? That I would have
built the picket fence
on my own? That every time
someone asked for my name,
I’d give them his?
That I would have done it—
let my hair strangle itself,
tattoo my legs with thorns
so he would call me
pretty?
Do you know
that I don’t believe
in parallel universes,
don’t believe
there is a me that exists
without you,
don’t believe he
was the centerpiece,
don’t believe he
was anything but
an indulgent rehearsal?
Or maybe I do.
Maybe I believe
there is one universe
in which you never
build a home on this
side of the earth, so
instead
my mother births me
on foreign soil
and my tongue
is a vast machine,
one that speaks
to your mother with ease
and I steal your first
kiss not just the last
and you pass
me notes in school
and vow to hold
my books.
Or maybe in one
you decide to make it work
with that girl and you settle
into something
silent and obedient
but I still find you
in that sticky bar,
and wake
the itchy bones
of your fingers,
let you touch me
that night, and feel
every solid
future beneath
my skin.
Maybe in one,
I am dreadlocked
and tattooed and trapped
in his bed until
you come, a stranger,
to deliver a pizza or fix
the faucet or rob
the place,
to remind me
who I am.
Maybe every one
of these universes
is just slightly
different—
the curtains are blue,
and you burn
the parathas, and we can
afford the grapes.
Maybe I am wearing
a red dress
with a hoop in my nose,
maybe we don’t dance
to Strawberries,
maybe I forget
the flowers and carry
babies, maybe
even he is a guest.
Certainly,
in everyone of them, you
are standing at the end
of the rock rimmed aisle
knowing me,
every me from
every universe that ever was
holding a ring—no,
holding a twig—no,
holding my hand
Jen Gupta is a middle school English teacher, writer, avid hiker, and horse lover. She lives in Somerville, Massachusetts with her husband and their houseplants.