by Jason Whitmarsh
She says he isn't as funny as he used to be. About fifty percent as
funny, maybe less. He thinks, but doesn't say, no, it's you, you're
depressed, you don't find anyone funny anymore. She thinks, but
doesn't say, I've always been depressed. I've never found anyone
funny—except you, once.
"Anniversary" by Jason Whitmarsh, from Tomorrow's Living Room. Utah State University Press, 2009.
That last love poem I gave you, I want to apologize for that. It was
crudely put and several of the metaphors leaned too heavily on sea
life. I love you so much more than that. The best pan of the poem
was the beginning, and that had nothing to do with you, or me,
or how much either of us loves each other. It was just a line from
another, better poem. Most of the poem sounds defensive, like I've
been accused of not loving you, or you of not loving me. Not that
I think I don't love you, or you me. I don't. Still, one could read a
poem by someone else and it'd seem more authentic—you'd be more
likely to think that poem was dedicated to you, I mean, than to think
mine was. One could even argue, too, that by studiously avoiding
your name or any identifying traits, I was making this poem fit for
more than one person, like women in general, or a second wife, or
your very attractive sister.
Lifted from The Writer's Almanac