At the Center of the Universe
At the center of every universe is a living room.
With the first Living Room event coming up this weekend, I have been consumed with the idea of the living room as a hub, especially after two years with an emphasis on staying at home and my recent time spent at my own childhood home. I am reminded that living rooms are little worlds of their own, complete with gravitational pulls, a single room where lives come together, love lights up the space, memories stain the couch, and moments of loss hang from the walls like childhood photographs. But, of course, I’m not the first to have this realization, as poets throughout history reflect and write about their homes. So, in honor of living rooms everywhere, come have a seat, rest your feet, and enjoy some poems that invite you in.
From Don’t Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine
There is a button on the remote control called FAV. You can program your favorite channels. Don’t like the world you live in, choose one closer to the world you live in. I choose the independent film channel and HBO. Neither have news programs as far as I can tell. This is what is great about America—anyone can make these kinds of choices. Instead of the news, HBO has The Sopranos. This week the indie channel is playing and replaying Spaghetti Westerns. Always someone gets shot or pierced through the heart with an arrow, and just before he dies he says, I am not going to make it. Where? Not going to make it where? On some level, maybe, the phrase simply means not going to make it into the next day, hour, minute, or perhaps the next second. Occasionally, you can imagine, it means he is not going to make it to Carson City or Texas or somewhere else out west or to Mexico if he is on the run. On another level always implicit is the sense that it means he is not going to make it to his own death. Perhaps in the back of all our minds is the life expectancy for our generation. Perhaps this expectation lingers there alongside the hours of sleep one should get or the number of times one is meant to chew food—eight hours, twenty chews, and seventy-six years. We are all heading there and not to have that birthday is not to have made it.
“I Don’t Miss It” by Tracy K. Smith
But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again.
Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light
Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.
And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke
Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,
Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,
As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir
Of something other than waiting.
We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,
And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,
It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you
Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know.
“I am Trying to Break Your Heart” by Kevin Young
I am hoping
to hang your head
on my wall
in shame—
the slightest taxidermy
thrills me. Fish
forever leaping
on the living-room wall—
paperweights made
from skulls
of small animals.
I want to wear
your smile on my sleeve
& break
your heart like a horse
or its leg. Weeks of being
bucked off, then
all at once, you're mine—
Put me down.
I want to call you thine
to tattoo mercy
along my knuckles. I assassin
down the avenue
I hope
to have you forgotten
by noon. To know you
by your knees
palsied by prayer.
Loneliness is a science—
consider the taxidermist's
tender hands
trying to keep from losing
skin, the bobcat grin
of the living.
-Elisha Aflalo
Cover art: TININGO’ SI SIRENA, Gisela McDaniel, 2021 via @/artistsofcolour on Twitter
