On the Difficulty of Staying Grounded and Fed in a Multiverse
I can’t believe: I can’t
float up to the ceiling
or disperse atomically
to become part of the food I will soon ingest.
I can believe I dump salt
on my plateful, spiteful.
Leftovers have no problem
with bilocation, belief; self-assured,
they will one day learn to fly,
take over the multiverse,
atom by moldy atom.
As true believers say: casserole wills itself
I can’t just float. Air is not water.
I just can’t
merge with my food
without chewing it.
I’m too dispirited to eat.
I guess flying--
makes sense. If you like sense.
My salty body puts me back in my chair.
A particular universe
fights with me to lift my fork,
does not win.
Where have I been, if not flying?
Flight without wings, without wind-warning
has always seemed plausible,
My hearing and sight fly inward,
collapse me gently.
A different universe hands me
a crust of bread, makes me agree to eat
as I crouch on the kitchen tile,
wait for the return of my senses.
If this return is possible,
a housemate wants my birthdate and time for her chart
showing what the stars have determined,
but that’s no fun.
Why not assign
a vegetable to every month and look to vegetables
to determine our fates, our ultimately unpleasant multiversal sensations?
My vegetable sign
could be Asparagus, a real pisser
of an oracle.
I’m bitter because she has invested in multiple meanings.
I will not do the same.
Overteeming meanings would feed me and keep me in a chair.
Amy Poague is an Iowa City-based poet working at a junior high. She holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Michigan University. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in The Cabinet of Heed, The Mantle, SWWIM Every Day, Really System, Rockvale Review, and Mojave He[art] Review. She is a contributing editor for Barren Magazine.