in a different version of the universe
a poem from 2022
children are violently twiddling their thumbs and engaging in war: one, two, three, four, using their shortest digits as bayonets. one boy finds another’s sweet spot, a chink in his armor, and presses a kiss onto the bridge of his nose. for them, death is but a mere noun, a meaningless word, because men kiss and love, because they do. a father hit a home run last week while playing baseball. he sprinted fast but not faster than the moment someone shot a blank handgun to cue his race. he leapt, broke his old record, and basked in a glory that made him happier than he already was. i like to imagine a world in which we live, where this planet cracks open like an egg and we all collapse and get back up again and the soil sews itself together and we watch it happen a million times over.
i wrote in a different version of the universe two years ago at the sewanee young writers’ conference. at seventeen, it was my pride and joy, the poem i thought would push me further than anything else. with determination to get it published, i submitted it to 30 different literary magazines/competitions—and every single one of them rejected me. i am usually fine with rejection, especially when it comes to writing (you get used to it), but those refusals definitely stung a bit, if only because i wanted to share this piece that meant so much to me. i stopped submitting the poem a while ago, but i still feel like it has something to say. so here it is.
(also, sorry if the poem looks bad on mobile)
The rejection part is so real. I find that each rejection stings more than each publication, which is a glass-half-empty observation but a part of putting oneself out there. I love this poem — soil sews itself back together?!!! Keep submitting. This reads like something I’d analyze in English 160. Proud of you!