top of page

Two poems by Cameron Morse

A Circular Arrangement



Whorl of dark hair on the scalp of my newborn

daughter Gigi, so thin her skin shows

through, and the red cloud of a rash. My life,

too, is a circular arrangement, a kind of circular

reasoning for one life to give meaning

to another. Gigi’s face averted, her cheek smooshed

in solemn, needful sleep is enshrined

in the white noise emanating from my iPhone


aglow among white leaves in the blue

print of the bedspread. I saw a photograph of myself

as a young man who could not imagine

having kids, the affirmation involved in that and now

I want a third magnolia to complete

the trinity of blooming trees.





The Geese



Twilight opens a window

on the drive home from Legend of Asia

with the kids in their car seats

for thousands of disparate geese flocks


for vast swarms to storm the house

momentarily vying for victory

over disbelief. I try explaining why that

letter of the alphabet to Theo,


who is learning his ABC’s, but can never

get a word in edgewise. I am overwhelmed

by their letters flapping crosswise

in this window between diagnosis and death.


Sun down, a helicopter crashed

just an inch beyond the burning horizon.





Cameron Morse (he, him) is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is The Thing Is (Briar Creek Press, 2021). He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City-Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and three children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.


Recent Posts

See All

Two poems by Mckendy Fils-Aimé

sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on...

"Dead Things" by Beth Boylan

I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick...

Two poems by Daniel Edward Moore

Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours /...

Comments


bottom of page