Dana Goodyear
Over Your Dead Body

This wasn’t what you had in mind

when you said, A house by the sea—

this flat Japanese plan; this expanse

that stubs on a bunker of grass;

these swans hissing humans off the nest;

and vitex, the abortion tree, scratching at the window screen.


I don’t think my mother was part of your ideal.

Or this dinner of wet chicken lobster and gin.

You meant Sweden, a kind of sober heaven

where you wouldn’t have to think about God.

Stay, stunt love, if you can stand it here.

Soon your double body will be nobody, no more.

Found In Volume 33, No. 02
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  • Dana Goodyear
Dana Goodyear
About the Author

Dana Goodyear is an editor at The New Yorker.  Her first collection of poems was published by W. W. Norton in 2005.