In the latest installment of the Daily Beast's poetry month series, a new poem from Dana Goodyear is paired with a classic by Louise Bogan. Both wrestle with natural disaster.
From the post...
Los Angeles, in Earthquake Light
The black pit bubbles up a princess
every now and again. One has bound
hands and a wildflower diadem.
The desert creeps at the rate
of fingernails; the abbreviation for street
is the same as that for saint.
In the doctor’s waiting room, a young man
screams into a telephone “What the fuck?”
which is exactly what everyone else is wondering.
On the periphery, tents
pitched under overpasses
cant against the dirty wind.
Congratulations, baby. You are rich
enough to drive your own limousine
to your own funeral.
All sashay together on the count of three.
Chandelier, swimming pool, patient EKG,
Abracadabra, you are free.
—Dana Goodyear
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