Yvonne Morris
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 in a variety of publications, including ONE ART, The Galway Review, The Swannanoa Review, Griffel, and elsewhere. She lives in Kentucky.
“Spring Leaning,” “Potato Soup,” “Any Old Two-Lane Won’t Do”
Thick ice in the driveway’s pothole thaws.
Three birds discover the puddle. I watch
from my warm, mouse-colored sofa as
they flop and shriek, bouncy in the frigid…
Three birds discover the puddle. I watch
from my warm, mouse-colored sofa as
they flop and shriek, bouncy in the frigid…
Poetry
“Busy Being Eve,” “Bright Highway” and “A Sort-of Sonnet for the Night In”
She drowns on the sofa for two weeks. But each day she makes herself rise and wobble to the kitchen for water, a bite of toast. The blistering pain in her pneumonia-filled lungs causes her to grab the counter as if it’s an overturned boat, yet she hangs on, gasping for dear life.
Poetry
Issue 57, January 2022
Issues Archive
Yvonne Morris
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 in a variety of publications, including ONE ART, The Galway Review, The Swannanoa Review, Griffel, and elsewhere. She lives in Kentucky.
“Spring Leaning,” “Potato Soup,” “Any Old Two-Lane Won’t Do”
Thick ice in the driveway’s pothole thaws.
Three birds discover the puddle. I watch
from my warm, mouse-colored sofa as
they flop and shriek, bouncy in the frigid…
Three birds discover the puddle. I watch
from my warm, mouse-colored sofa as
they flop and shriek, bouncy in the frigid…
Poetry
“Busy Being Eve,” “Bright Highway” and “A Sort-of Sonnet for the Night In”
She drowns on the sofa for two weeks. But each day she makes herself rise and wobble to the kitchen for water, a bite of toast. The blistering pain in her pneumonia-filled lungs causes her to grab the counter as if it’s an overturned boat, yet she hangs on, gasping for dear life.
Poetry
Issue 57, January 2022
Issues Archive