When I Think of Home
by Ally Feisel
I think of the gentle green hills that frame my house
and the potholes that crater Route 309.
I think of the sign that welcomes me back
and the sign above it that tells me not to abort my baby.
I think of the terracotta townhouse where I got my first tattoo
and the brick church where resentment pressed into my skin.
I think of the glowing stars on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom
and the many that have fallen and lost their points.