What I Call I
Cameron Morse
What we call “I” is just a swinging door which moves when we inhale and when we exhale.
Leaning in
to the doorframe, I listen.
A sticky latch clicks
in my throat. What I call I is
listening. Pressed,
eavesdropping on my own son
talking to himself, banging
on window glass.
When I came to trucks to blow
the snow, he let go
of the door and quieted, studying
the page over my shoulder
with its whirling turbine
and chute, its cartoon
children gleaming.
After Mommy's counter
tantrum and enraged flight
to Home Depot,
I sit outside his door,
hearing only her growl.
Cameron Morse
What we call “I” is just a swinging door which moves when we inhale and when we exhale.
Leaning in
to the doorframe, I listen.
A sticky latch clicks
in my throat. What I call I is
listening. Pressed,
eavesdropping on my own son
talking to himself, banging
on window glass.
When I came to trucks to blow
the snow, he let go
of the door and quieted, studying
the page over my shoulder
with its whirling turbine
and chute, its cartoon
children gleaming.
After Mommy's counter
tantrum and enraged flight
to Home Depot,
I sit outside his door,
hearing only her growl.