Elegy for Gatsby
I used to think that stories ended neatly,
and that even if you were dead, floating
in a green pool like Jay Gatsby, it was okay
and somehow you were still able to see
what happened after, how the phone that rang
and rang really was Daisy, how wildflowers
have covered your smooth lawn. And even though
I know now that dead is dead, this is all still
somehow true. How can nineteen-year-old me
not know that I cover her headstone in words?
Editor’s Note: Careful enjambment gives this poem both energy and quiet contemplation, sometimes simultaneously.
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