In Room N

211, Sunday.

crucifix perched
above the door
I lay awake
in the beauty
of Lili’s cell
phone number
the symmetry
of odd’s, even’s
the fit of one fitting
into one, the cross
hairs, scare
quotes that hold
me in my cell.

Our numbers
poems that make
their own music, wing
beats, our memories
of being here
confused, or in-
fused with being here now.

Took me six years
to feel this dizzy
stumbling away from
the merry-go
round and round
in my head. Vertigo
from verto meaning whirl,
whirligig meaning

volta. I turn my
head and the hospital
room spins, pinwheeling
its confirmation. You
remember somersaults
as a kid: Kindnesses.

A cup of cheese
cubes and salami,
Folgers coffee.

Cameron Morse lives with his wife Lili and two children in Independence, Missouri. His poems have been published in numerous magazines, including New LettersBridge EightPortland Review and South Dakota Review. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His latest is Far Other (Woodley Press, 2020). He holds and MFA from the University of Kansas City—Missouri and serves as Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and Poetry editor at Harbor Editions. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.    

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