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.