Tammy Ho Lai-Ming
Cameron Morse
In this lower world
where the philosophers hold sway,
we discuss our chances,
over breakfast, of an outbreak:
thunder and chicken sausage
links sizzling in one
too many tablespoons of water, coconut oil
in scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Just to be safe, stock up
at Costco for doomsday. A literary
friend in Hong Kong wades
through a stream of gauze nostrils
and lips and weeps on Facebook
on her way to an empty
classroom. I would be among the first
on the hit list, thanks to my
chemo-compromised immune system,
my asthmatic little brother
not far behind. Thunder of another
unexpected morning rain.
Afterwards, in a cinder-plastered
echo chamber, the chitter
of house sparrows. Green beads
of newly budding branches.
Cameron Morse
In this lower world
where the philosophers hold sway,
we discuss our chances,
over breakfast, of an outbreak:
thunder and chicken sausage
links sizzling in one
too many tablespoons of water, coconut oil
in scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Just to be safe, stock up
at Costco for doomsday. A literary
friend in Hong Kong wades
through a stream of gauze nostrils
and lips and weeps on Facebook
on her way to an empty
classroom. I would be among the first
on the hit list, thanks to my
chemo-compromised immune system,
my asthmatic little brother
not far behind. Thunder of another
unexpected morning rain.
Afterwards, in a cinder-plastered
echo chamber, the chitter
of house sparrows. Green beads
of newly budding branches.
House Sparrow, by Victoria Alexander
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