After Bosselaar

I hate political correctness. Hate it with the bright

passion one feels when finally and comprehensively

driven round the bend, when blood, tongue, teeth

and throat throb at once in the perfect madness of hating.

There’s pleasure in this, a sort of ecstasy. My husband

tries to convince me my rant is evasive–

a passive-aggressive response to societal deceit,

expectations I can neither control nor achieve.

He hates my hatred, which I secretly enjoy

as I press my body deeper into the wallow.

I detest onions, lawnmowers, manufactured floral scents —

I like hating them. I abhor inspirational-quote books, existentialism,

lace curtains. I derive serenity from loathing, from the easy passion of looking

away. There is no war, no recession, no treacherous

bank or politician, no neighbors or friends falling

from the edge into whatever lies below. Foreclosure is not

on the high school vocabulary list. The long tunnel of hatred becomes my tree-

lined boulevard, my white picket fence (which I also hate)–

Enchanted with hating, I can sleep through the night, manage affection, keep a

straight face from canting towards sorrow.