Two by


Maura Way





So Long



Image and input overcame me. Deep in my gorges they are a pinhole camera of unwanted memories and then there’s the new ones and the sourced findings. Some bones in Devil’s Canyon, the quilt in the Neon, cornflowers and overalls and me in them atop Camel’s Back Park. Where do I store you where you’ll stay the same and not romanticize? How do I even begin to remember without a yielding, sickening betrayal? Very soon, when I am old, I will call all these things and you the wrong name and not know what self to be, what stories to tell, perhaps then, walking naked to Wreck’s Beach, I’ll be becalmed.





Creeping Morning Glory



She can’t stay awake for the harbingers,

but still looks for them at dawn. Smooth

bringers, smoke signals, wisdom on the

half-shell: the clear-headed fingers of

five year plans, next steps. She swiftly

falls into choice overload and retreats

into the moment as is so touted by t.v.

and books by people on t.v. Then the

laughter-loving sleep, without finishing

the flow chart. Tomorrow will be the

same. She read articles about slowing

down; finds no advice on how to speed

up. Maybe this ox-eyed woman has the

secret? In deep sleep there is forgetting.

In this sofa there are coins. She will not

be a juggernaut on wheels. First do no

harm then listen for the moonflowers.









Originally from Washington, DC, Maura Way lives in North Carolina, by way of Boise, Idaho.  Her debut collection, Another Bungalow (Press 53), was released in 2017.  She has been a schoolteacher since 1995, most recently at New Garden Friends in Greensboro. 



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