I was born in a yellow house, later painted pale green. On most mornings, the light came in from unnamed stars. I didn’t need much water. I dove diehard for Captain Kangaroo & had too much time for crayons & Silly Putty. My little, insignificant life waxed & waned. Time was stranded on the moon. Oh, & people. There were three women & one man. I won’t name names. It won’t come to anything. & me. My thoughts traveled through bone via absent-minded bubbles. Then everything remained forgotten. On most days, I could play jump rope & walk on air.
like Tom Sawyer, I play hooky everywhere
“Marry a girl of stout faith,” says the hung-over, rosy-cheeked priest.
I marry a peach-colored cloud,
& no honeymoon
The bishop with a silver tooth comes to confirm us. He asks questions about Christ & who really hammered the nails into His cross. We have the answers partially memorized. After we kneel & give him our new chosen middle names, I feel a warm stream down my leg & leave a puddle of clear yellow on the marble floor. Like a small miracle, it forms the shape of a Rubinesque angel in the center aisle between pews. Outside, a nun slaps me while I’m standing on the church steps. Then, she hugs me and weeps.
if only my legs would stretch I wouldn’t have to run away
Kyle Hemmings has work published in Sonic Boom, Deracine, Right Hand Pointing, and elsewhere. He loves 60s garage bands and 50s grade B sci-fi flicks.