two poems

by Yvonne Morris

Movies Taught Me All I Know About Foreign Affairs

The first shot opens on a mysterious woman sitting

alone in a train compartment near a window.

We watch the green English countryside speed by

in black and white. The female, using an alias

meant to complement her cheekbones reminiscent

of alpine ski slopes, carries stolen microfilm in

her handbag, which matches her knee-high boots.

The floppy brim of her hat obscures one eye. This

can only mean that she is a mole for MI6, which

is why the lanky and handsome-in-a-hungry-way

fellow with black-framed glasses follows her as

she departs the platform, her heels click-clicking

away in the mist. He skulks and pounces, and our

popcorn tastes salty when they kiss, but the curtain

must fall on love and her double-cross must surprise—

this is the way of all spies. And the satisfied audience

waits for the credits to roll as somewhere on another

continent, peace jumps the tracks while Big Ben tolls.

The Best Poem You’ll Ever Write is the One You’ll Never Write

I was trying to gather my thoughts to lines,

but my toddler cat steals all my pens

for toys—knocks my legal pads for drafts

to the floor—though I have no doubt I will

feature lovingly in his memoir. Because

I couldn’t write, I read for a bit, and I came

across a quote from a famous poet who

said poetry is like farming because it needs     

dedicated, lifelong tending. But perhaps,

the obsession to conjure poems is also kin

to those investigators who can’t give up—

digging, turning over, ever assessing—

the cold case, that one lost life

that never, but must, find light.

Photo of Yvonne Morris

BIO: Yvonne Morris' work has appeared in Beach Chair, Cathexis Northwest Press, Eclectica, The Galway Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, ONE ART, and elsewhere. She is the author of Busy Being Eve (Bass Clef Books) and Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). Her third chapbook is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2026.