Ten short lines, and almost nothing in them moves. Jasmine Christi's "Another" is built like an inventory, the kind of list you might scribble on the back of an envelope, and the surprise is how much a list can reveal about whoever is making it.
The first stanza piles up under the word "More": curtains, men, bodies, pissers. Look at what the men are placed beside. They come second, right after curtains, so they have the same grammatical weight as furnishings. Then the sequence narrows. "Men" becomes "bodies," and "bodies" becomes "pissers," a crude slang word that reduces a person to a bodily function. It is the one moment where contempt, or at least irreverence, breaks through. Every noun in the stanza is also plural. There are no individuals here, only a crowd, which gives the singular title "Another" an ironic edge. Each man is just the next in line.
The second stanza turns "More" into "Same," and the turn cancels the first. All that apparent variety turns out to be repetition. What stays constant is a set of objects: towels, cigarettes, bed linen, wine. These are the things of aftermath and routine, used for cleaning up, winding down and passing the time. The poem never says whose bed it is or who buys the wine, and that vagueness adds to the effect. In the speaker's world the objects are the stable part and the men are the variable. There is also no "I" in these eight lines, and not a single verb. The speaker is absent from her own list, or at least hiding behind it.
The form supports this. There is no rhyme and no regular meter, only lines of two to four syllables that fall like a repeated knock. The parallel openings, "More… More… Same… Same…", are visible on the page as well as audible, so the monotony is built into the shape. Then the last two lines break the pattern. They are longer and looser, and for the first time we get an ordinary sentence with a verb. After the staccato list the rhythm relaxes into conversation, as if the speaker had finally exhaled. That relaxation might be contentment or just resignation, and the poem lets us feel both.
The ending is where the real work is done. "Lovemaking" is a soft, almost old-fashioned word, and it lands right after "pissers," so the two registers clash. "All this" sweeps the whole catalogue into a single lump. Then comes "comfortable," a word for armchairs rather than passion, and the "so" in front of it protests a little too much. Is the speaker convinced? The last line is even more telling: "They even make me dinner sometimes." The word "even" treats dinner as a bonus, which shows how low expectations have sunk. "Sometimes" rations the kindness. "They" blurs the men into one collective, just as "Another" did. And "me," the speaker's only appearance, is the object of someone else's verb. She is the one being cooked for, not the one acting.
The tone never settles, and that is where the poem's strength lies. A reader could take it as a shrug, a boast, a joke or a quiet complaint, and the deadpan delivery supports every one of those readings. Nothing is explained and nobody is blamed. There is no melodrama about heartbreak and no glamour about freedom, only a flat, accurate-sounding report.
That restraint is what makes the poem worth studying. In ten lines it shows how repetition can wear away the thrill of desire, and how a small domestic gesture like a cooked dinner can feel like tenderness or like a consolation prize. It trusts its objects, its plural nouns and its one slightly too cheerful word to do the emotional work, and it leaves the reader to decide whether "comfortable" is a happy ending or a sad one.