The sky is the color of a rusty
crayon, the house a black box
with a triangle on top. In the attic,
a boy sleeps on a bed of broken
sheets, a bar of light across his body.
The dark in his room is friendly
as erasers. Grinning pencils
are leaning in the closet,
the shadow of a stuffed monkey
claps his hands. The laundry basket
rolls around laughing. And the room
simplifies. A wall becomes a line,
a chair a friendship. A belt buckle
disappears. Above him is a shadow
of a giant pair of hands, tousling
his feather hair, and the boy’s stick arms
are crooked, elbows bent, as if he is cradling
a bird.
Hanna Iruka Hall is eighteen years old and loves to read and write. Her work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is fascinated by Medusa from Greek mythology, and would like to conduct a slime-mold experiment in her free time.
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