Art by David Zimmerman
I love this poem —
MOUNTAIN DEW COMMERCIAL DISGUISED AS A LOVE POEM
by Matthew Olzmann
Here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why our marriage
might work: Because you wear pink but write poems
about bullets and gravestones. Because you yell
at your keys when you lose them, and laugh,
loudly, at your own jokes. Because you can hold a pistol,
gut a pig. Because you memorize songs, even commercials
from thirty years back and sing them when vacuuming.
You have soft hands. Because when we moved, the contents
of what you packed were written inside the boxes.
Because you think swans are overrated.
Because you drove me to the train station. You drove me
to Minneapolis. You drove me to Providence.
Because you underline everything you read, and circle
the things you think are important, and put stars next
to the things you think I should think are important,
and write notes in the margins about all the people
you’re mad at and my name almost never appears there.
Because you make that pork recipe you found
in the Frida Kahlo Cookbook. Because when you read
that essay about Rilke, you underlined the whole thing
except the part where Rilke says love means to deny the self
and to be consumed in flames. Because when the lights
are off, the curtains drawn, and an additional sheet is nailed
over the windows, you still believe someone outside
can see you. And one day five summers ago,
when you couldn’t put gas in your car, when your fridge
was so empty—not even leftovers or condiments—
there was a single twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew,
which you paid for with your last damn dime
because you once overheard me say that I liked it.
So I adapted it, because I am not married yet, as a break up poem —
VASELINE LIP BALM COMMERCIAL DISGUISED AS A BREAK UP POEM
So here’s what I’ve got, all the reasons why we would
never work: you are into research but you send me poems
without reading them twice. Because you talk
at a person instead of talking to them, and pity,
rather excruciatingly, at your own life, a bit too much. Because
you cannot hold your own, you are half hearted.
Because you berate all your exes, sometimes friends, even when you know,
the mistake was clearly yours. You don’t have it in you,
to take the blame. I tire of your excuses. Because when
I first came to your house, you were suspiciously concerned
about no one overhearing us. Because you NEVER text me,
“Did you reach home safe?” Because you respond to some
of my texts. You deliberately leave out some. Especially
the ones where I ask you why, what, how. Apparently, you feel
boxed by accountability. And most of the times, you ACTUALLY
think that I wouldn’t notice. Because you pretend to be affected by the news,
and recite to me the bits that made you sad, but that’s usually a performance,
an opinion you picked up from a smart girl’s tweet, just your type,
and you whine relentlessly about suffering but every time I tell you
how you hurt me, you tell me to stop complaining. Because you don’t
even try to understand my cultural references, instead, you
roll your eyes — Greta Gerwig, bell hooks, Susan Sontag, Amia Srinivasan, Lauren Elkin???
Anyone??? Because when you sent me an Ilya Kaminsky poem,
that read, “You are two fingers more beautiful than any other woman — I am not a poet
Sonya, I want to live in your hair”, you probably forgot that my cropped hair barely touch my nape.
Because when we make plans, and set a time to see each other,
decide where we will meet, exactly what we will eat, you still seem
to forget every small detail because you know how to hit where
it hurts. And one day sometime in the blooming spring, when you
would pass the chemist often, when you even went in to purchase
medicines — sometimes just Vicks toffees to kill time,
there was a small tube of Vaseline Lip Balm,
which you did not think of buying even though
you heard me groan all day long about my chapped lips.
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