And so you published a book of poems
I’m so proud of you!
But I did hesitate
When I read on the back cover
The years you say they covered
Of your youthful pain and anguish
Smack dab in the middle
Was our relationship
Our romantic relationship that lasted…how long?
6 months? 18 months? A year?
I am ashamed to say, I wasn’t counting
I remember a winter and a spring
When we slept in the same squeaky bed
I remember steaming summers with your smile
Autumn when we were not a couple
Where you’d talk about the auto show
Like a child at Christmas
And I didn’t care at all
We were freinds before and after
At least I always thought so
When we lived in the same town…
But I moved very soon after, didn’t I.
After we decided it was over between us.
After I had said we should get married
And you clearly didn’t think the same
I had graduated and was looking for a job, anyway.
And then I got married.
And you came.
And we hardly said a word the whole time.
I was working on my second novel
When we were together
I was never happy with it
I kept on trying, didn’t I?
But it made me angry and sad
That I couldn’t get it right.
And you were writing poems
Though you said you weren’t a poet
Which you very seldom showed me
Was my competiveness so cruel?
My selfishness so complete?
I encouraged your book about baseball
That seem practical and commercial.
I never knew what to make of poems
They were all so personal.
And now they are published
Beside my bedside in a perfect bound cover
For a month until I could crack them
Read all in one long sitting first
Looking for myself of course
But not imagining that I might have made a
More than just a sliver
In that ten year period of your life
You had other women, after all
That never bothered me.
Poems you call “Hate Poems.”
Not one, not two, but several
Were the first I recognized
“Put together by mutual friends
But not caring enough
To get past
The gulf of difference.”
Or something like that.
But now, read all again, I see…
They might all be about me
Something about my brain was smothering you
Something about my questions irritated you
Something about my mind was too crowded for you
Even though you saw my brilliant ghost
From time to time
It made you suffer to be near it
I’m so sorry that I made you suffer
I’m so sorry I made you so angry
I’m so sorry I tried to make you love me
When you did not want to love at all.
At least, not me, it seems.
I’m glad you found someone else.
It’s okay you wrote me hate poems
For all the world to see
Because the opposite of love isn’t hate
It’s not caring at all.