The Okay Gatsby
He boasted the titles of professor and political
advisor. Failed campaign ashes and delinquent
invoices stained his fingertips, black chalk.
Within and without proximity to power, despite
his ill-crafted mythologies, or love of his country
club, membership paid by his personal bank: Daddy.
A loser to anyone his age. Former Sigma Chi
President stuck in the glory of an old lingerie
frat party. Looking out to the freshman auditorium,
matching Student IDs to bored faces. And I, the
fool, making eye contact then. And him,
making contact later, impressing my body
onto his sheets. For a price:
Lessons on the masculine art of seizing
what you want, no matter who it belongs
to. Tutoring on success in America, carving
shortcuts while everyone waits for a road
to be paved. For the confidence to say “I am
the universe, and the universe belongs to me.”
But he lived in an apartment, not a mansion.
The jingle of a gifted crystal chandelier, a
cacophonous tune that laughed at talks of
meritocracy and “define propaganda,” “vote
Republican,” “or start by earning your grade,”
a hand guiding the back of my head. I was
in the room that sourced the yellow light
through the window. I was the black silhouette
brought to its knees in the “golden” tunnel.
But the only gold was plated on high school
swimming trophies on an IKEA bookshelf.
The mattress was on the floor.
Gem Blackthorn is a Nicaraguan-American writer and poet. Her work has appeared in Reading Queer, Contraposition, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, and Livina Press. She writes from the I-75 stretch between Miami and Tampa, FL. You can find her on Instagram @gemblackthorn or online at gemblackthorn.com.
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