Dia Roth 

Ode to the GIFs I send my friends

—after Ross Gay

Bless you, dear friend, not

because you sneezed but because

I want to anoint you always with the spit

that flies from my lips when we laugh

together and since we can’t I will bless

these beautiful loops: fixed moments

that put off my inevitable loneliness

I send you the one of young Leonardo

DiCaprio dropping to his knees

despondent in the dirt with feet splayed wide

exposed chest aglow in golden light

tearfully crying I defy you, stars!

and though the clip has no sound

we can hear his heart breaking 

as he’s crushed again and again by fate

and what I mean to say to you, my friend,

is not I defy you, stars—because

I could never hope to do such a magnificent

thing alone—but rather do you remember

when we almost escaped our endless loops?

launched from cradled hands clasped tight

our bodies leaving earth like rockets

but when we arrived a dying star told us

that all his friends had burnt out long ago

and left in their wake: vantablack

the color that absorbs all light and

reflects nothing which is to say

that all we saw in our search

for lost stars was nothing

except the spit that floated from our lips

when we laughed: blessed droplets

reflecting the sun

which is what Leo means to say

when he appears on your phone screen

tearful and defeated

because he is heartbroken, yes,

because he thinks his love is dead, yes,

because he is trapped forever

in the fifth and final act

of a Shakespearean tragedy, yes,

but more than anything

what he means to say

is that he refuses to accept

nothingness or that he will never hear

his dear Mercutio laugh again

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Statement of Homage 

In the dark and waning moments of 2020, I re-read Ross Gay's Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude and Bringing the Shovel Down in a last-ditch effort to telegraph some of the light of his poems into my life. I was once again struck, as I am every time I read his work, by his ability to zoom in on the most minuscule moments of joy. While Gay names many of his poems as odes ("Ode to Buttoning and Unbuttoning My Shirt," "Ode to Sleeping in My Clothes," "Ode to the Beekeeper," the list goes on), the awe and exultation of an ode can be found in so many of his poems never labeled as such.

The best example I can give of a poem that is not called an ode but contains all the qualities of an ode is Gay's "A Poem in which I Try to Express My Glee at the Music My Friend Has Given Me," which I refuse to cite individual lines from because I feel strongly that this poem ought to be read aloud in one expansive, exuberant breath. Go read it (aloud, if you can), feel the joy in your chest bubble up and over, and then come back to me, and we'll continue on together.

The Sun's June 2020 issue featured an epistolary essay co-written by Ross Gay and his former graduate student, Noah Davis, entitled "The Ramshackle Garden of Affection." Through poetry and games of pick-up basketball, the two developed a deep and loving friendship, as evidenced, in part, by letters penned back and forth over the course of months. In his brief introduction, Gay writes of the letters, "they are about basketball, and, as such, they are about gender and masculinity and race and capitalism and touch and care. And, as we’re both poets, they’re very much about language and the imagination. And, as we’re friends, they’re also about friendship."

I have never subscribed to the notion that one's romantic relationships ought to exist above one's platonic relationships. All of my loves are passionate, capable of delivering both joy and heartbreak, deep care and unconditional support. And while I am lucky enough to live with my partner—a relationship that continues to offer incredible comfort and companionship through the ongoing isolation of the pandemic—I've found myself desperately missing my dearest friends, my closest loves, those who have always held me. Similarly, I've been reflecting on the ways in which I communicate with these now-seemingly-far-away friends when a video call is too exhausting, when a written letter won't arrive soon enough, when a simple text doesn't do the depth of my feeling justice.

And so, after Ross Gay's many odes, after his exuberance, after his rich reflections on friendship, I wrote "Ode to the GIFs I send my friends," for all the loves I hope to hold again very soon.

Ross Gay

Ross Gay is a poet and professor living in Bloomington, Indiana. He is the author of four collections of poetry: Against Which, Bringing the Shovel Down, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, and most recently, Be Holding, "a love poem to legendary basketball player Julius Erving—known as Dr. J". He has also co-authored two chapbooks, Lace and Pyrite: Letters from Two Gardens, with Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and River, with Rosechard Wehrenberg. To find out more, and to buy his books, visit his website.

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