by Cameron Morse
Thunder creaks in the crawlspace.
The house speaks to me nights I have
trouble sleeping, its tongue pierced by nails.
Lightning haunts my window, lightning
without rain. If only I could sleep
and be healed, sleep without dreams.
Breathe without dread. But I am on my hands
and my knees always in the dark spaces
beyond the ladder, above and beyond,
in the distance between your hand
and my thigh, the lightning and the horizon.
The house cringes then cries out.
My son is afraid of the thunder. I explain
the lightning is still far, far away.
Cameron Morse (he, him) 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 three children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.