Poetry

By Amanda Laughtland

Recommended Reading

Six paperbacks, stacked along
my shelf's sanded edge. The yellow receipt
from our lunch marks the page
where I stopped. I ate a clubhouse,
but your sandwich grew cold
in the Styrofoam box our waiter brought me
when you left. I wish I'd had
a book to read while I sat
in that huge, soft booth. Instead,
I learned the evening's bar specials:
happy hour, hot wings, well drinks, $2.95.
When I left, I gave your box
to a man on the street because he asked.


When I Say Girls, I Mean Women

I like girls with boys' names:
Danny, Alex, Sam. Also girls
in boys' Levi's: biker girls,
cowgirls, efficient girl Fridays.
Mostly I like them on nights
when they smile at me and skip
the self-checkout machines
to lean their forearms against
the circulation desk for a while
and talk about their overdue books
and not their boyfriends.



Amanda Laughtland lives with her partner, Tanya, in the suburbs of Seattle, where she teaches English part-time and works part-time in a public library. Her poems appear in such online journals as Lodestar Quarterly, QP and Snorkel.