The Hanging Boy 

You open the door to the house 
your father put up for sale 
and find a boy 
hanging from the ceiling, 
one who looks the way
you once did. 
Slowly, delicately, 
you take him down, 
cradle, carry him outside, 
next to your father's rows 
of grape hyacinth, scarlet sage. 
But it is beginning to rain. 
He, you, deserve better weather 
than this. 
So you lay him down
in your bed. 
In the soft reflection 
of the night light, 
you swear one blue eye,
same color as the both of yours, 

Now you know 
what you'll dream of :
ruined corn
purple sky
your father's smile
in the Neosho River. 
And you won't bury this boy
until the weather clears up.


© Kyle Hemmings

Kyle Hemmings lives in New Jersey, where he skateboards, does backflips, and often misses.