We ourselves are the big activity.

You who are reading are the reading.
Conjure what I mean
when I say rain, say I am waiting
for my daughter to quiet down
on her own. The rain tickles the patio
table glass. Do you know
what I mean? Have you ever been
sitting at the kitchen table
listening to a baby sputter and squeal before?
Have you ever been tickled by the rain?
And I-70 is another kind of rainfall,
albeit two-way. No more crying, you say.
You say because I say. You were saying
because I am saying. Now that I am
dead, I am said. Already spoken.

The train that thrums the tracks
is squealing. Can you hear it? The baby
is quiet. The rain has stopped,
but the dishwasher is swishing water
around in its mouth like a child
at the dentist and the refrigerator hums
human, human, human, there is
no word for what you are.

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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