Bio: Laura Nash attends Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. Majoring in English Literature, she plans to learn Mandarin Chinese and study abroad in Europe and Asia. 

Poetry by Laura Nash

Issue 1.2

Nose in a Book

I breathed in deeply
warm, light, woody scents, and then
I curled right up on a shelf.
My toes caressed the hard covers;
My lips brushed the soft, cracked spines of paperbacks.
The paper, stained by skin oils, fanned against my breast.
Ink on my tongue.
Pressed against my ears,
the clicking of a keyboard.
Lay against my fingertips,
the edges of pages.
Brush marks in the dusty corners
betrayed my eyelashes
had kissed the oak.
And in the arms of words,
paragraphs of gentleman-like eloquence,
I fell asleep.

Seventeen and a Half Years Later

Seventeen and a half years later,
I sip a hot, frothy latte through matte orange lips.
My red pen is poised above a draft of a manuscript, double-spaced
in a suave downtown used bookshop-cum-café.

I sip a hot, frothy latte through matte orange lips
and shining ink arrows redirect words like traffic lights in an intersection.
In a suave downtown used bookshop-cum-café,
my legs are crossed, my foot bobs—counting syllables.

Shining ink arrows redirect words like traffic lights in an intersection.
This could be on the top of the New York Times bestsellers list.
My legs are crossed, my foot bobs—counting syllables.
My coffee mug needs refilling.

This could be on the top of the New York Times bestsellers list,
if only the author could spell.
My coffee mug needs refilling.
I click my nails on the cold ceramic.

If only the author could spell.
My red pen is poised above a draft of a manuscript, double-spaced.
I click my nails on the cold ceramic,
seventeen and a half years later.