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We found (like the deserting) spacious calm, drank a pair of Arnold Palmers underneath a palm. Went for massage and mud, lacquer, love, overheated minerals, a stimulating rub. Then—as if it could be used, as if for art— I placed a grain of doubt in your open-pored heart, and watched what had been small dilate and everything else evaporate.
Honey and JunkThese powerful poems are like wrecked pastorals whose narrator seeks temporary pleasure in wit, form, rhyme, or the borrowed weekend house. Inching toward consolation in the face of sudden loss, the poet examines the reconfigured world. The elegies are like conversations overheard or recounted dreams: full of portent and mystery. more »
Dana Goodyear is a staff writer at The New Yorker, where she has worked since 1999 and the author of Honey and Junk, a collection of poems. Her work has appeared in many magazines, journals, and periodicals, including the New York Times, the New York Review of Books, the Los Angeles Times, the Yale Review, the Colorado Review, Open City, Slate, and Vogue. She lives in Los Angeles. For more, visit danagoodyear.com.
Elizabeth Spires 
