by Cameron Morse
The house holds its breath
and waits for the train
to pass, for the hysterical wailing
to subside into silence. Angry
when you first had sex
that that was it, what all the fuss
was about, if you could call that sex.
The house makes a big fuss
about the photos on its mantle, the gray
smear of an ultrasound,
if you could call that an ultrasound.
The train is sentimental. You know trains,
always dragging their feet, longing
to go back and change things.
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 at cameronmorsepoems.wordpress.com.