CAMERON MORSE - POEMS

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 Terminal Destination (Spartan Press, 2019). He lives with his pregnant wife Lili and son Theodore in Blue Springs, Missouri, where he serves as poetry editor for Harbor Review. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.  

​Father’s Day

You twist the ads that come 
in the mail for doorframes and peaches 
into a Father’s Day bouquet. 
I remove urine ring from toilet bowl. 

Theo throws a tantrum over the brush dripping
in its little stand. The moment I close 
the door, he wants out of the guest bedroom 
where he had been so contentedly 
building blocks. On our seven-year anniversary, 
we drive him to the Burr Oak Woods 

Nature Center where only one sticker per visit 
is permitted. Alone in the bathroom I apply 
mine to the inside cover of my notebook. 
You attach yours to Theodore’s chest. 
With so many options, we both pick 
MAGNIFICENT MONARCHS! 

The Antagonist ​

In the season of chainsaws, I hose 
sawdust off the slide. Remove my T-shirt
and squeeze rainbows out of my spray bottle. 
I watch the white welt of the mosquito bite
rise on my forearm. I have always been a problem 
to myself. I has always been a problem to me. 
After Theo steals my Contigo, I steal his. 
Turnabout’s fair play. The difference is 
I drink his water, he pours out mine 
over the dusty pavement. I dunk my feet 
in his kiddie pool, lawn-chaired in maple shade, 
slip out of my Crocs and capsize the caddie 
that contains his cups and sponges, his 
waterworks-designated tray. 


​

​Folding Clothes

I am always leaving
my fly open. Always in 
a hurry to return. I reach out 
in the dark and knock
over my glass of water 
on the nightstand. Fall asleep
thinking I should drape 
the towel over the bedpost. 
Lili makes my folding 
look very sloppy indeed 
with her neatly stacks of bath
towels. What am I not 
seeing? What am I choosing
not to see? How does the mind
know? How do I know
what to look for? In this jumble 
of details falling 
into place? Hazel eyes, hospital
pacifier, son, I slide 
the newly folded shirt warm 
below the cold ones 
in the drawer I’ll warm before 
I see it surface, re-
surface, cold. 
 

Roasted Seaweed
​

When he concentrates on building 
blocks, I interrupt him with a board book. 

When he concentrates on a board book, 
I distract him with the blocks. I pull him 

through the yellow snail kiddie pool. 
Just to make him chase me, I pluck out 

the binkie in his mouth and fling it at the sky.
After lunch, I can’t imagine how we’ll fill 

the time before dinner. After dinner, 
I can’t imagine how we’ll make it 

to bed. There’s no shine to it any more. 
Before lunch, Theo and Lili snack on banana 

and roasted seaweed. Before dinner, they 
munch slices of Swiss cheese 

and almond-buttered toast. I feel useless 
as a father. Even Lili doesn’t ride me 

like she used to about language nutrition 
and maintaining a sense of order.