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, 

opens. 

Now you know 

what you'll dream of :

ruined corn

purple sky

your father's smile

floating

in the Neosho River. 

 

And you won't bury this boy

until the weather clears up.