"A Woman and Multitudes" by Olivia Buntaine
"I even love the way you never finish any drink,"
my girlfriend says
"always leaving one or two untasted sips"
clearly referring, I could tell,
to my habits with relationships
I do have a habit for unfinished stories
and books and poems and drinks and plates of food
and its more than a habit, its a hankering
she says this
because we are in love.
And this complicated for me.
Because I walk through the world seeing nothing
but pulsing golden strings that could tie me
to everyone I meet
and mourning the webs I don’t get to weave
caught in imaginings of hearts I didn’t get to see
Because for some insane reason
when i was thirteen
I believed what Walt Whitman told me
that I contained multitudes
(or he did, whatever)
and maybe I shouldn’t have believed him
Maybe I should have spent more time
with Emily Dickinson
Expecting no one to know my soul
unraveling myself in my own secret world
but I am in love with many things, not just people
and this is complicated for me, so I speak
but mostly, in this stretching moment,
I am in love with her
and the ways she holds me
like a thought she can’t unthink
this scares me
She tells me we should get tattoos
and I immediately think
How will I explain this to
some man I’ll end up with:
sorry, honey,
this is for a girl who I will probably always love
more than you
He wouldn’t understand
and neither does she
And neither do I most of the time
my multitude of anxieties don't keep me safe
they hold me hostage from what I am meant to feel
but I was taught to write what I know
and what I know is this divided, fractured self
Whitman’s multitudes
that fuckboy of american poetry
taught me to take up more space
than can often be afforded to me
and I think, Walt, that multitudes feel different for a woman
so here I am
wishing Ophelia had left a note
wishing Emily had told me why she wouldn’t have had
the world hear her speak
wishing there was some woman I could follow, I could pray to,
who embraced and demanded space for her complexities
who, following that, didn’t get burned in effigy
There are times that I feel
very very alone
I know many people do
so I retreat to the narcissism of a slam poet
and the intricate reflections of a sad and longing poem
because a bad poem is like a funhouse for its author
and a good one is like a warm coat that fits anyone
that holds you and reminds you what space you do take up
and keeps safe whats inside
and so many people have gone without good coats
for so long
far longer than i
and I never understood why I should reach for my own
oxygen mask before helping my child but
maybe we are meant to stay alive to take care of the ones
who are too busy dreaming to breathe like we do
So I will put on my coat and try to help you with yours
and I will reach for my oxygen
while the ones who still have the strength to inspire breathe in a way
I do not know how
I am in love
and it has been complicated since I was thirteen
when I fell in love with both
Walt Whitman
and Emily Dickinson.
and my heart feels so tired to be 22
I do not know if I am grappling in the dark for my own oxygen mask
or if some safe person is finding it for me but
I hope it comes soon
I am beginning to feel lightheaded
