Green grass bristles below the snow
that represses it like desire.
Crows walk the lawn, undertakers
in their black suits. Blue jays descend
upon the back patio to peck at dog food.
Under the wind’s constant surveillance,
I walk to the lip of the cul-de-sac, the edge
of my confine, slush splashed
over the curbside. I need to stretch my legs
below the oak leaves, brown rags
in the charcoal sky. Rock salt burns
holes in the history of the ice, yesterday’s
encrusted bootprints. All I want
is for this narrow life to last.
Cameron Morse taught and studied in China. Diagnosed with a glioblastoma in 2014, he holds an M.F.A. from the University of Missouri-Kansas City and lives with his wife, Lili, and son, Theodore, in Blue Springs, Missouri. His poems have been or will be published in over 100 different magazines, including New Letters, Bridge Eight, South Dakota Review, I-70 Review, and TYPO. His first collection, Fall Risk, is available from Glass Lyre Press.