Cameron Morse

Age four, my son tells me
I am going to be killed.
Age 34, I argue, but the augurs
of the internet agree
with my four-year-old.
I am going to be killed,
licking an envelop 
or nodding off in the passenger seat.
The statistics entangle me
in grief. There are bright night
stadiums filled to capacity
with daddy’s who try
to argue as their rogue heirs
slap them in the face,
punch them in the penis,
and toss their glasses
of water in the shattering driveway.
Dressed up as ghosts
for Halloween, these terrified children
terrorize, haunting
their own bedroom closets.
Truth or dare? It’s time
to say goodnight. Turn out the light. 

Walking with Omi

Cameron Morse

Cars whiz around the bend
below the mildew bridge.

I override your squiggly will
with man force. You step

on a sidewalk beetle
by accident, an ant on purpose.

The first drops its white glob
in stillness; the second stutters.

Sun clearing the cloud bank
draws a long line of cloud,

sidewalk chalk. Our silhouettes
sprawl upon the lawn.

Yours is short, mine longer.
When a fly dies in the window track,

ants carry away the body.
I ask you to be kind. “Omi,”

I plead, “be kind to plants
and animals.” Cars whiz

around the bend. I am talking
from somewhere far

above your head, an outline
in the scrawl of clouds.