Home Town
Poetry by Alissa Hull
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. |
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.
|