That feeling you get when you enter someone else’s home for the first time — how for some reason you are transported back to your own from a distant memory — it’s how they left their mug on the living room table, the dollar store glasses with the keys at the door. This poem transported me to a room of my childhood — the TV room, our escape. “There is shame in this act” — we would watch movies, TV shows, sometimes for hours, or deep into the night. And even then— within the escape from reality — I would find myself hiding too from the TV — the vicarious embarrassment, anger, or fear; too little of the softness I’d seek. “I begin at the beginning.” Another show begins —
—Corinne Yonce