A ring of chocolate milk at the bottom of a glass draws a crowd of ants from the next county. I pour a confection of sugar water and Borax into a bottlecap, makeshift watering hole. The death-sweat returns to the boy you fell in love with, Augustine, but your wretched life is only dear because you loved the boy. When the ants meet on the mantle in my study, they touch together antennae as if shaking hands the way you shook his perhaps, testing the grip for callouses or tenderness. Funny how first meetings make a permanent impression. I once saw a pair of houseflies mating on the windowsill, their connection slow as a data transfer from USB to the port it’s docked in, and thought about my parents. Outside, the rock salt I sprinkled eats away at the ice the snowmelt hardened into. ![]() 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 is Baldy (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.
2 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Archives
December 2021
|