Poetry by Alison Jennings
Across the Universe
Because the Sun will fade within a billion years, the first thing to do
upon abandoning this world is a galactic backflip, turning round
with graceful motion, executing a perfect landing mid-air on a cloud;
the second is to hitch a ride on an eagle’s outstretched wings, as it soars
nearby, curious about your lack of same. Leave behind stuff randomly
acquired—toaster, broom, disordered bookshelf, cheap floor lamp;
you won’t need them where you’re going—the closest habitable planet.
There you’ll find a velvet sofa, underneath a winding staircase
with gilded mirror, wall-to-wall carpeting, and a walk-in closet, recalling
eerily that Kubrick film, wherein the astronaut—after traveling across
the universe—arrives in a white room, full of earthly items to assuage
hesitations about his next big celestial adventure: See you on Aldebaran.
(thanks to Stanley Kubrick and the Rolling Stones)