There is another world, and it is in this one.
—Paul Eluard
In another world, Shrödinger
is a Nobel Prize winning poet,
Whitman, an astronomer
who storms out of poetry readings,
fixes his telescopic eye on the stars,
reflects, in his loneliness,
that the stars are as numerous and large
as the sperm cells in a single emission
are numerous and microscopic,
and in yet another world,
a just one, I was never born,
because the winning sperm,
the one that wriggled
its way into my mother’s egg
before any of its rivals,
the sperm that joined with that egg
to form a coincidence called me,
was dishonorably disqualified.
To the red ribbon spermatozoa,
whom I edged out of this world
in a coital photo-finish:
I apologize. I’ve been a cheater
my whole life and longer.
This world rewards that.
But if it’s any consolation to you,
this world has also punished me
in ways that someone like you
could never fathom.
from My Life as a Minor Character