Home Town

Poetry by Alissa Hull

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You tend to be flat,
like if you can see forever
             into the horizon
             field trees, field square,
             u-haul sign, deer blind,
you think you know everything.

I’m sorry I never write, but
             what do I have to say?
Your world kills people like me?
Police factory farm suicide military;
are all our thieves praised as tragic heroes?

I take sleeping pills,
             drown you out,
and lie about where I’m from.

But I still see you
hurtling by, intersections
             with only stop signs,
and know you better than most
and what you whisper about
me and the rest of the world.

But it makes you lead-footed
             unable to move
             shiftless, content to
             stare at the line of trees
             at the edge of the field
             in the distance

and call this home.

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About the writer

Alissa is currently a human rights lawyer for incarcerated people. As a queer woman from rural Michigan, she has spent a lot of time traveling, trying to find a place to call home, and paying tribute to those who didn't make it. She was a part of several self-publishing collaborations, and was a member of a collective that founded a harm-reduction group for street based youth in the sex trade and street economies in Chicago. She currently lives in Upstate New York.