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C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press


By: Maura Way

My objet d'art flagellates

himself. I am not amused.

My sous chef brooks no

fools, obviously. My sense

of belonging lags behind

my collections. Even snow

globes could overwhelm me.


Your cut-outs annoy me because

I am from the land of the cut-offs.

Skin your knee in Pompeii and call

it an accident. Flesh can be seen,

the Latin teacher said. Dripping

hollows fashion. Priapus requires

a written waiver from your parents.


There's no place like my body. There's

Montauk. I took a stone home. The light

house was open for self-guided tours.

The rain turned into snow. I thought it

would be different, same as when I look

in a mirror. There are ruses all around us.

The redcoats are inside out on the lawns

of Leisurama. My body gets this; it dreams

of Dick Cavett and goat cheese. I'm thinking

about Amistad, of course. I'm thinking about

the man who drove me to Montauk. I wrote

him out of the story, but I'm willing to sit

here and take questions if you will applaud.

I'm waiting for Stan Laurel to write me a letter.


Tricky baseball fathers will admit that I

am right as rain. I usually notice assholes.

The dull nobility of dicks wears me a new

one. My epic expired on my way to another

tropical ampersand. I will get home eventually.


Originally from Washington, DC, Maura Way lives in North Carolina, by way of Idaho. Her poems have previously appeared in The Burnside Review, Verse, DIAGRAM, Hotel Amerika, and The Chattahoochee Review, among others. ANOTHER BUNGALOW, her debut collection, was released by Press 53 in 2017. She has been a school teacher for over twenty years, most recently at New Garden Friends School.

"Layers of time and language compel and annoy the speaker. Both the body and the land demand to be read as palimpsest, and no one surface remains a safe skin. The stories demand to be told no matter how old, complicated, or absurd. This is a long island."


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