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Laura Stott

Judy Halebsky

Laura Stott holds an M.F.A. from the Inland Northwest Center for Writers (Eastern Washington University) and teaches at Weber State University. Her poems have been published in various journals, including Bellingham Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Cutbank, Quarterly West, Sonora Review, Redactions, Sugar House Review,  and Rock and Sling .


In the Museum of Coming and Going

The Radio TreeIn the Museum of Coming and Going

$15.00 paper | 70 pages
ISBN: 978-1-936970-28-5
Publication Date: September 2014
Buy: Amazon | B& N | IndieBound | ShopWMU | UPNE

“A talismanic moon, birds, moths, fish—all punctuate these poems, and as is right, ‘A jungle opens a heart.’ It’s a heart with peace beating at its center as the person around it moves through the world’s chaos, its feral cats screaming. Reader, find succor in these lush and lovely poems, find music and light on every page, find whispered secrets and ever-unfolding stories; and reader, take heart in this heart, which is good and kind and true.”
            —Nance Van Winckel

“These are poems of travel and travail, of losing one’s bearings but finding one’s way.  In short, they transform us—into crows and lizards, into sacred cows in a blue city, into snakes or sea otters or sometimes stars. These poems invite and entice. Do not lose your eyes, says one poem. Child, hold God in those hands, says another. May we all grow so gently bold. May we all hold and keep holding.”
            —Lance Larsen

“By means of exceptionally concrete and direct language, Laura Stott’s poems lift dark matter up out of the shared unknown and give it shape. They have the simplicity of blue shadows and bells, the curiously beautiful postures of shore birds in a marsh. This book is as clear-eyed and original as any poetry I have read, and the poems do not melt away as you read them, they stay, they keep on reminding that mystery inheres not in abstract complexities but in our essential experience of the world. A truly wonderful debut volume.”
            —Christopher Howell



The girl with no hands

stole a silver pear
from his majesty’s orchard.
And the gardener saw it, believed
she was an angel.
The way she tilted her head back
and stretched her neck to the sky
to eat. Her hair hung like silk curtains.
And in the moonlight,
how could he not
fall in love with her?
How could he betray this love
and tell this secret
with the time to count each fruit?
Each destined
for their numbering.
It was a story the gardener couldn’t
explain, but had to account for.
So, the gardener and the king waited
in hiding for the maiden
and when she appeared, hunger
was in the girl’s every step.
They dared not speak,
but watched her, as moths lightly played
around their faces.
Are you of this world?
If I am a dream, then I am a dove.
Be my queen, I will make you hands,
and the gardener wept, and the king
kept what was never his to keep.