I am made of intersections
where each light just changed to yellow,
which is to say: I must make choices;
which is to say: stop or go;
which is to say: fight or flight
because freeze is not an option.
But sometimes the choice is already made,
which is to say: I’m second-born;
which is to say: I’m the second first-born;
which is to say: I’m the second mother;
which is to say: I’m never far from home,
I can’t escape home; I’m my younger sister’s
favorite because I’m always home,
which is to say: the others are states away,
unable to be always home.
But maybe home is more than a home,
which is to say: it’s a way station between
where I was and where I’ll be, because yellow
also means yield, means: pause, means: wait,
means: almost, means: there’s a gap after this car,
means: get ready to gun it.
Christina Ellison is an MFA candidate at Sam Houston State University, an Editorial Fellow at the Texas Review Press, and managing editor of The Measure at SHSU. Her stories appear in Humid 14 and 15. She lives in Spring, Texas and has a knack for potholder loom weaving.