Back to Issue 12
Lay waiting for the black bus
of sleep to collect me. It didn’t come.
I don’t know what signal I’m on,
with my eyes open
to the slatted Venetian blind.
Anguish, swallowing another
melatonin tablet. This wait
is like no other. I am awake,
an array of new tumor before me,
caught helpless in the dim headlight
of my bedroom, holding still
for the sake of the pregnant woman
beside me, who makes me
breakfast on an impossible diet,
quiche with a sausage link
baked into the middle. I am nowhere.
Whether asleep or blown wide open
like a barn in a tornado
ceases to make a bit of difference.
A road regurgitates in the distance.
By Cameron Morse
Cameron Morse is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is The Thing Is (Briar Creek Press, 2021). He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and (soon, three) children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.