Everyone is a Gatsby
I think about people all the time.
Their relevance to me, my relevance to them—
it’s all a swirl—tongues inside thoughts
inside tongues—cinnamon rolls for the brain.
I have them for dinner some days.
The first time I saw blood as an object
at a slaughterhouse as a boy, the butcher asked
how I liked my meat. I stayed silent first,
then said tender. He laughed. Years later,
I’m still singing at a karaoke
Give me your tender heart.
I know people feel things all over the world—
joy & ecstasy & grief & agony—
but when the moment arrives, it seems
I’m the only one. This must be tenderness.
Last evening I read about F. Scott Fitzgerald,
thought about the life he led, wondered if
he became a Gatsby after finishing the novel,
or was he always one for writing it?
Satya Dash's recent poems have been published or are forthcoming in Passages North, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Florida Review, Pidgeonholes, and Glass Poetry, amongst others. He spent his early years in Odisha, India and has a degree in electronics from BITS Goa. Now he lives in Bangalore and recites his poetry in the city's cafes. He tweets at @satya043.