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Winston-Salem, NC 27101
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Maura Way
Another Bungalow by Maura Way

9 x 6 paperback, 80 pages
ISBN 978-1-941209-64-6

Publication date: September 27, 2017
Scuppernong Books, Greensboro, NC, 7 PM

Maura Way was born and raised in Washington, D.C. Her poems have appeared in Verse, Beloit Poetry Journal, Drunken Boat, DIAGRAM, and The Chattahoochee Review. She lives in a yellow brick house in Greensboro, North Carolina, with her husband Mark.
Pre-order your signed copy now! Books ship September 28
Praise for Another Bungalow

The living texture of late America: Another Bungalow reconstitutes it, spiky as it ever was. Way’s poems are short and quick, brilliantly witty, and unwind from themselves sinuously and ruthlessly. We need this kind of fun! Dauntless, cruel, all-heart, trustworthy fun. 
—Catherine Wagner, author of Nervous Device

The poems of Another Bungalow are endearing antidotes to memory’s rose-colored glasses; they chronicle the informal, indelible microeducations meted out through circumstance, strangers, and a quirky sense of humor. (Will having dressed as a hockey puck for Halloween determine your relationship with the man you met that evening?) If you never lost your bite-plate to the sea in a teenage laughing jag or conceded to a bully’s demands because they were addressed to the name on your second-hand gym shirt, you’ll still relate. Maura Way’s poems celebrate the “satiation found out beyond the bronze,” the “small but generative victories” that keep us, in our normal lives, unique. 
—Janet Holmes, author of The ms of m y kin


at thirteen, I am fit
for a bite plate—a pretty
pink imitation of the
roof of my mouth

no one can see it, but I can 
flip it clack it snap it 
and even wear it
swimming in the ocean

until someone tries to dunk
me and, everything is hilarious,
I spit it out in a melodramatic
timely teen laughing jag

I watch my bite plate
disappear into the gray.
I dive after it like it will be
as easy to find as a penny

for years after this day
an aunt or cousin will
point to an odd shell
on the shore and say my

bite plate has finally come
back to me. I will jam many
salty purplish fragments
behind my buck teeth

and smile and nod. I like
thinking of my bite plate
beyond me, out there in
the drink. The thirteen-

year-old roof of my mouth
immortalized in hard
plastic and housing
some strange crab,

invisible plankton colony,
lily roots, or even now
scum-covered at the
bottom of a hog lagoon

gone uncorrected, buried,
laughter ejecting even this
small cry for perfection