Cameron Morse taught and studied in China. Diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2014, he is currently a third-year MFA candidate at UMKC and lives with his wife, Lili, in Blue Springs, Missouri. His poems have been or will be published in over 50 different magazines, including New Letters, pamplemousse, Fourth & Sycamore and TYPO. His first collection, Fall Risk, is forthcoming from Glass Lyre Press.
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of
the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
— Genesis 1:2
Half-inch long, little one, good night.
I am waiting to give you a name. I have spent
nearly 30 years waiting, thinking about a name.
In the translucent bulb of your brain, delicate
veins scrag like lightning. The discharge of your first
thoughts thunders upon the horizon, a reverberation
of my own. Sondaughter, remember that I, too,
have dangled over the face of the waters
without lids or irises, the black gunk of my eyes
sightless as mud. One day you will see what I mean.
It’s not easy to weave a wreath around the sun.