There is a universe where I am
a barista or videographer or marketer
or astronomer. I could have said no–
I skipped an interview– when you asked
if I would come to Palm Springs. When
you said you know what this means if you
go, I could have pivoted and returned
to painting my rented room in sadness.
This matters. This doesn’t. This cyclical
current. Of course we’d split, even after
you said– eating biscuits at the bakery–
the universe gives what you put in.
Yes, perhaps. But I am alive, formless,
confused as the river flowing opposite,
a flight response to a hurricane I would
never fight. I stayed in Seth’s basement
for a week after. Who walked upstream
out from it was never relevant, anyway.
(originally published in CERASUS, Summer 2021)