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June

Cameron Morse

Our house hunt enters

a second month. 

There is no recompense 

for June in Missouri, 

the scorch parking lot, 

the spidery smother 

of the woods. Wander down 

to the creek 

while another plumber 

telescopes sewer 

pipe on his screen

in the furnace room. 

Roots of the trees 

we give our hearts to, 

the phantasmagorical

sycamore doubled 

over its gnarly waist,  

stuff the clay joints 

and burst apart our pipe

dreams of a home 

of our own. What season, 

what search, what extended

sentence is this

run-on, we run on? 

Because our lives are not 

our lives now. 

They are an aftertaste, 

bacon smoke 

lingering in the kitchen

of another sunken house

boat, another fallout shelter. 

Infant skydiver my 

daughter during tummy 

time lifts off 

the quilt, hands hovering 

beside her. 

It’s not long before she rolls 

over simply by 

titling her cranium. 

Sometimes I am still enough 

in morning air for small currents 

to drift across my brow.

Quiet enough to hear the tinkle

of a dog collar. 

There is dew still. 

I like the way their droplets 

gleam in the dark, hulking 

shadow of my father’s house. 

about the writer

Cameron Morse was diagnosed with a glioblastoma in 2014. With a 14.6 month life expectancy, he entered the Creative Writing Program at the University of Missouri—Kansas City and, in 2018, graduated with an M.F.A. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, including New Letters,Bridge Eight, Portland Review and South Dakota Review. His first poetry collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press's 2018 Best Book Award. His latest isBaldy (Spartan Press, 2020). He lives with his wife Lili and two children in Blue Springs, Missouri, where he serves as poetry editor for Harbor Review. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.