There is a theory in physics
which states that
everything that is possible happens.
Flip a coin, and it comes up
heads and tails.
If you see heads,
it’s only that you exist
in the heads universe.
But the tails version
of you and of the world
They are extensions of you;
they are beyond you.
How many times have I,
in effect, simply flipped a coin?
Like when he asked me, “Do you think
there will ever be a chance for us?”
I exist in heads (“No, I’m sorry”),
but years later,
I swear I can hear tails (a nervous “Yes”),
that metallic ringing quarter
echoing softly behind me.
Or when I chose tails
and the leap-of-faith career,
but still I feel the tug of heads —
the straight-and-narrow choice —
a string pulling gently, invisibly at my spine.
And now, standing in front
of a goddamn vending machine,
I’m frozen by the thought
of how many different versions of myself
are living out the consequences of my choices.