A Hanged Man Remembers

I am hanging,
stretched by my own weight,
noose tight around my throat
and squeezing.

Between the oak bough above
and the brown grass below,
there’s nothing but my taut torso,
dangling limbs,
that rigid rope

and memories of my boyhood home of course,
and not forgetting ballgames with my father,
the first girl I kissed,
my best friend, Ivan,
the favorite fishing hole,
carnival rides, all the cars I’ve owned,
all the exciting trips I’ve made,
the faces of Angela, Josephine and Marie,
that big win in the casino,
the cruise, the horse rides,
canoeing on the river…
I could go on and on

but my body can’t.
It’s only six foot long,
six foot two at the blackout.

John Grey


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.

One Comment on “A Hanged Man Remembers

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