Suddenly it seems a betrayal
this preference for smoked salt,
when to our south the very air
breathes fire, the Santa Anas deadlier
than even Didion lamented, insisting
they accentuate LA’s impermanence,
its unreliability.
C’mon, the calamitous
is just excuse to forfend all the ash
of horror headed all of our way.
this preference for smoked salt,
when to our south the very air
breathes fire, the Santa Anas deadlier
than even Didion lamented, insisting
they accentuate LA’s impermanence,
its unreliability.
C’mon, the calamitous
is just excuse to forfend all the ash
of horror headed all of our way.
And so here in Santa Barbara we
taste, dance under crystalline skies
knowing smoke blots for miles
in other unfortunate directions.
Still relish the good char upon
our lucky full plates.
Whatever
certain hell that has to happen will
find us sated, a synonym for sorrowful.
taste, dance under crystalline skies
knowing smoke blots for miles
in other unfortunate directions.
Still relish the good char upon
our lucky full plates.
Whatever
certain hell that has to happen will
find us sated, a synonym for sorrowful.
–
George Yatchisin is the author of Feast Days (Flutter Press 2016) and The First Night We Thought the World Would End (Brandenburg Press 2019). His poems have been published in journals including Antioch Review, Askew, and Zocalo Public Square. He is co-editor of the anthology Rare Feathers: Poems on Birds & Art (Gunpowder Press 2015), and his poetry appears in anthologies including Reel Verse: Poems About the Movies (Everyman’s Library 2019).
