Kyle Hemmings

Kyle Hemmings has been published in Unbroken Journal,
Sonic Boom, and elsewhere. He loves street photography, and garage bands of the 60s.

Mud father

Our real father kept returning until he didn’t. My sister and I kept taking long walks at night but never disclosed where we went or what we found. We constructed a new father made of mud. When winter came, he turned hard and cracked. We hid him from mother then told the truth. It took the three of us to carry him in from the cold. On the kitchen floor he stared past us, as if he knew everything. When spring arrived, he crumbled. My sister and I kept the largest pieces for our future. Mother slept with her piece. She woke with dirt between her teeth.

You Left Your Heart in the Swamp

Dead TV celebrities emerged from the mist. Some interviewed the moon. Some performed charades for no one. Others were eaten by alligators. Everyone died a second time forgetting their lines. And the dead weight of it all, like a ghost gaining mass and volume, crushing the memory.

Breathing in the Pandemic

We must do something with the body. Soon, the house will swell with her death. And the silence. Even in lockdown, my own antibodies keeping secrets.

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