Epitaph for the Endangered Republic

As the old order trembles, a poignant poem recalls the mysteries of JFK's death

President John F. Kennedy sits with his son, John F. Kennedy, Jr., in the West Wing Colonnade of the White House, Mar. 28, 1963 (Credit: Cecil Stoughton/JFK Library)

I want to share a poem that evokes hope and death. In three stanzas, Sasha Debevec-McKenney summons a specific time and place. It is “Hartford Hospital November Barack Obama Is President.”

(The poem appeared in the Jan. 27 issue of the New Yorker. )

As her grandmother lays dying, the poet recalls grandma’s pet names, the sound of her voice.

And the doctor asked her/ what month it was/ she said November.

It’s November 2013. Barack Obama has been reelected, and the poet is relieved, at least momentarily, because she believes that her grandma is not dying. A moment of illusory comfort that passes in a heartbeat. As she sits with her brother in the hospital room, grandma speaks one last time.