a poem a day for a year #130

by Amy Turn Sharp


the hills of Southeastern, Ohio
are the most beautiful deep hills
I cannot stop staring
my head like a dog out the window
they are your hills too I guess
where you used to live
your city block
your pasture
your ugly city
any old place you came up from
any place that makes you mouth
the word
home

our car points the wrong direction now
broken compass shoulder shrug
the hills are behind us now
we are hurling towards the future
the past like a speck of mud on the rear view mirror
my eyes narrow
I am trying to remember
when I felt this sad
magnolia trees beside of me at a stop sign
this must be what regret smells like
this must be the place