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.