You
need to learn to swear, he told me.
A
Quaker like you, so controlled
--it's
not healthy.
I
wondered if he might be right.
I
did feel choked up at times
by
the undone dishes and frayed edges,
not
to mention the major injustices of life.
Leaning
into memory, I brought up
words
from TV and novels, phrases
my
grandfather had used when provoked.
I
rehearsed them mentally,
avoiding
the mirror.
A
few weeks later,
something
he said (I can't remember what),
--a
twist of sarcasm, a patronizing hint--
and
a voice whispered, Now.
I
looked straight at him
and
with a keen and measured ferocity said,
I
just don't give a hell.
In
the following silence, I realized
I
hadn't quite brought it off.
Finally
he said, If you're going to swear,
at
least do it right.
Warning: I'm practicing.
Next
time I'll get it.
Mountains
will quake.
