THREE POEMS

by Cameron Morse

PYTHON

No one told me how long I had to live.
No one quoted the statistics.
Even the python in Mom’s dream

was dead, lying on the dining room table
during a Morse family gathering.
No one prophesied the amount of time left

in my ledger. I raise my eyes.
There is no more snow on the ground.
I raise my eyes. Juniper shadows

waggle their dark tongues, air warm
as the inside of a mouth. I draw in
close enough to hear the crackle

of snowmelt. Ice unclenches its fist.
Slush squashes under my heel. Little ice
castles sink into the softening green.

 

 

 

DURING THE BURIAL 

On the 737 back to Beijing, passengers ready themselves
for sleep. The window seat removes his black cloth
mask and slumps forward, pressing his forehead
into the tray table. Cattycorner tightens

the strap on her eye mask, wrist piled with hairbands
and bracelets. People shutter their portholes.
I feel the down suck buoyant uplift and recline an inch.
Orange juices swish the tray tables around me, ceiling haloed blue.

The pilot suspends drink service. In Beijing,
we collect our suitcases. Our friend’s Orchid Garden
apartment receives us one last time before the long,
long flight home. Its courtyard magnolias

blossomed during the burial. Blossomed from fuzzy green
buds while we burnt joss paper, three pieces
at a time, and prayed at the tomb for good health,
good fortune, safe passage home.

 

 

 

DREAMING OF YANTAI

Magnolia mostly done now, more undone
than forthcoming, I dream of Yantai
where the stairwell scrunches
until it’s like I’m spelunking, scooting
on my butt toward the exit.

Theo bounds into the green in his green
alligator jacket from Beijing. Rows of cut grass
from Grandma’s morning ride around. I dab
the droplet of milk on his chin
with the bib. Sherlock swishes the white plume
of his tail at the back door. I dream of you,

belly sagging from childbirth
who were so young. I miss class because I’m in Yantai,
I miss classes I’m enrolled in, entire programs
of study. As waterworks supervisor,
I oversee the splatter and splotch. Sherlock lifts
a hind leg to the elephant grass.
Theo pours his cup into the dog food bowl, launching
a miniature fleet of brown floaties, captain
of kernels, soggy cereal.

 

 

 

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 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.