The Universe

What she says is true or what he says is true

or the answer falls somewhere

in the middle, their discussion wedged

within the crush of bodies on the Q.

The concept of Self is all

an illusion, she says. The mind’s

one-way mirror between you

and our communal experience.

The train races over the river, the river

mosaics the sunlight. What are you

saying? he says. That “we” is the only

pronoun allowed in our mouths?

“I” is like an ice-pick, each time

you utter it, you break yourself

away from the universe. Here’s the flaw

in your reasoning, he says. If I say

I see your point, I’m still saying I.

That’s the flaw of language, the boundary

of words. Look, she says, imagine looking

at everyone objectively,

gliding over this train. What am I,

a bird? Yes, a fast pretty starling. Go on.

You would only see the collective we

heading to the city and not single out

yourself. The train jostles. His eyes

slide from face to face, eyes to eyes,

some looking at his looking, some

averting, then his own vaporous face

in the window, laid over

the Lower East Side like acetate.

He turns to her: his squirrely girlfriend.

I’m an I, he says, and you’re an I,

and that woman in the red peacoat reading

Isabel Allende is an I, and this kid

on your right, earbudded to rhythm, slow-

nodding yes continuously. I, I, I, she says.

Stop dividing us from the universe.

Alright, everyone is part of

the cosmos, kumbaya from here

to Sri Lanka, I’ll give you that much.

Don’t say part of, you are still

making divisions when you say

part of. How would you say it? She rests

her fingertip at the center of his chest.

This is the universe. She points

to herself. This is the universe. And this kid

flooding his head with music, he says.

Go on. Everyone on the Q. Every

thing, actually: moon dust and navel oranges,

warheads, cardamom seeds, lava piling

over lava. She holds his hand

or he holds hers. Strange, he says,

acknowledging the universe like this, this

moment like this. The universe is strange,

yes, she says. It is beautiful. Too bad it is

destructive too. It’s a pretty bird in flames

flying regardless. The city scrolls

by and by the train windows. Is the universe

takeout at my place tonight? Yes, noodles

swirled in a small white box tonight.