by Nancy Pagh

Published in Issue No. 214 ~ March, 2015

Old furniture made from sea grasses bent, shellacked.

Yellowpoint. Early tea. How morning wipes stars from a table,

slides us a plate with an egg. Upcoast

bears turn boulders on beaches, decipher and eat

the tide’s arrangements. Stillness is a word

for continuing to exist. For sea lettuce waving

its tarpaulin over a crab. The ability

to carry our freight of flesh

down one trail or another.


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Nancy Pagh burst on to the literary scene as a teenager, publishing her first poem, “Is a Clam Clammy, Or Is It Just Wet?” in a local boating magazine. She teaches at Western Washington University. More at