Cameron Morse


Among the living things I’ve killed I count
the one I flushed, the one I hit
with the head of a broom in the furnace room
at midnight, but I couldn’t bear
to watch summer’s last bumblebee
beat itself to death inside the Mason jar,
and I memorialized the brown garden snake.
Mom and I dropped the vole in the dumpster,
not a pot of boiling water. Nevertheless,
oak leaves and spider webs collect in the chimney
corner of the back yard, gathering
behind the cement rabbit with one broken ear
the evidence of autumn and argue
their case against me.

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