Yvonne Morris is the author of two chapbooks of poetry: Busy Being Eve (Bass Clef Books) and Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in a variety of publications, including The Ghudsavar Literary Review, The Main Street Rag, Griffel, The Closed Eye Open, Beyond Words, and elsewhere. She earned an MA in Mass Communication from the University of Kentucky.
How the Professor Taught Creative Writing
The professor asked so many questions
the students complained to administrators
that they had no guidance, had to think
too much on their own. He gave them
no grade for dialogue, they said, and
would sometimes cut his own class,
where alone, at home, his eyes no longer
the crystal lakes that had lapped the edge
of childhood dreams, he smoked in bed
and drank on his feet, following the stars
with one finger, wondering if words
could steer them.
(Previously published in The Santa Clara Review)
Early Impact
My five-year-old brother was Superman.
His mighty bath towel tied around his shoulders,
he leaped from the tall sofa toward an old wicker chair
there on the screened-in front porch, summertime
in Michigan, no air conditioners then just a big window fan,
drapes shut against the sun, shadows field deep,
blackening a shelf of Childhood Classics.
I remember my brother’s sudden screams, blood dripping
from his forehead after he thumped onto the floor.
I used his cape to stem the seeping, real redness—
called out for my mom to Come Now! Superman crashed
in an instant, but the past would soar by scarred for years.
(Previously published in The Bengaluru Review)
Another one in the pen
Mother sits at the kitchen counter, her heavy white coffee cup
half full in front of her, in that same way you’ll see someone
in a bar nurse a lone drink for hours. In person, her speech
bumps and jabs, so unlike her phone voice—musical and bright
and saved for strangers. Her fine, dark curls flutter under
the overhead fan as she stares beyond her newspaper, mutters,
“There’s another one of your old boyfriends in the pen.”
(Previously published in Ariel Chart International Literary Journal)
Bright Highway
The cursor stops at the last word
deposited on the dead-end page,
the latest plaything. I’m restless
but suspect it’s pretty good practice
to rise and listen to the old clock’s
patient beat, to climb from this still
chair, to unfold packed-away dreams,
to look at the bright highway, to make
believe in a fresh trail—an open run
of dog-legged two lanes to follow, away
from any bitter-pill-in-the-peanut-butter
people—just me and you, straying along,
nipping and howling between rests.
(Previously published in The Write Launch)
We’re All Philosophers in the Park
So we’ll get over our cool,
count the ducks. Describe
the turtle’s deliberate pose,
the swan’s stroll. Sweep
these hands over the lake’s
wrinkled, olive-green skirt.
Measure the heron’s gaze.
Pretend we’re the small
girl, poised atop
the tall slide
in all her
unintended grace.
The Galway Review 