Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review, a poetry editor at Harbor Editions, and the author of six collections of poetry. His first, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Far Other (Woodley Press, 2020). He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and two children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Cameron Morse and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A Facebook friend asks
about my bucket list
as if skydiving
in a lightning storm
could prolong my life
or my job were to
checkmark things I’ve tried
when all I want is
to be with you and I am
with you here
in this room breathing rain
A more likely origin is the use
of bucket in the sense of
“a beam from which something
may be suspended” because pigs were
suspended by their heels
from such beams after being slaughtered
Pink cartoon dragon
teaching my son about sex
I have so many questions
Had GBM and was
two weeks before his
death at the gym
and doing OK
oll korrect gymnastic
Why are the children
suits you’re talking to
where’s the fire
in your nostrils doused
Theo’s so scared of
the alarm the Amber alerts
on my phone give me
a heart attack every time
how do I know who
belongs in my
“circle of……… love”
who can I invite
David Krancher once edited a literary journal called Dark Horse. He’s published poems in Dance magazine, Wilderness House, Dark Horse, and Bagelbards. He’s old. He lives in Cambridge.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by David Krancher and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A Believing Sonnet
Numbness is close to godliness when I miss you.
Feeling is believing when you speak to me.
At lunch my hands keep busy spooning miso soup,
as I count noses, yours and mine don’t equal three.
What women wear means nothing to my poetry,
but I remember all the dresses you wore this fall,
as if outside visions of cotton mattered to me—
as if a fitbit counted important feelings for all.
Do brown leather boots with black heels mean
anything to a small wallet and a phone poem?
I count the times you smile infinity beams
in disgust at my hope to dispatch all wrongs.
My feet don’t remember bread gave them power.
My words don’t know how I can love the hour.