Sandra Beasley reads
Love Poem for Los Angeles
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Two hundred years ago, we set out west one oath at a time, a long game of Telephone: You are our strangest echo, the promise of Great American Self-Storage. Los Angeles, I love your red-and-white strip joints, your car dealerships, your Bob Hope Hall of Patriotism. I love the graze of your fingernails, your slow sparklers of palm trees, your buildings silver and inscrutable, this constant haze as if a battle just ended and your bloodied asking Did we win? Did we win? Los Angeles, take off your sunglasses, roll your window down; I like it when you let your hair whip into knots. Los Angeles, even your salads glisten with fish and though I know you dream of living forever, cancer looks good on you. Los Angeles, I love the ways you misunderstand me: Jew for blue, erosion for ocean. I am rushing your Russians, I am cold for your gold. When I tell you I’m married, all you say is I do. When I say Don’t get hurt you hear Flirt harder.