ninanevermore

Since the last one wasn't very fun, I'll post one that is.

This is about my mother and her use of curse words. For a poem about swearing, there aren't very many swear words in this poem. Just one, and it's mild. The rest are alluded to but not said. My mom was funny about swearing, and this is about the one four letter word that she used.

Swearing

My mother was a good church-going woman,
a Baptist who married into Methodism,
and she did not approve of rough language.

She limited her swearing to Damn It,
a phrase allowed by the FCC over the airwaves
and allowed by my mother in our home,
so long as it came from her own mouth
and not from the mouths of her children.
She viewed the word that began with an F
as far too obscene and tacky to ever bring up in public,
and the word that began with an S
as far too dirty, literally and figuratively,
to be allowed anywhere in the house,
except for the one room.

However, a good solid Damn It
was a necessary evil that must be uttered daily
at the washing machine when it came unbalanced
and at the dryer when it buzzed to be unloaded.
She said, also, it to the stove burner
that just would not ignite
and to the dishwasher on the day
that it leaked sudsy water all over the kitchen floor;
she swore at the telephone that rang
when her arms were full of groceries,
and at any child who wanted her attention
when she was trying to hide in the master bathroom
to read a Harlequin Romance novel
for the 20 minutes that the washing machine needed
before it reached the spin cycle
and once again came unbalanced
and began banging like a big metal drum.

I tried Damn It out once, myself,
only to learn from her hand landing on my backside
that saying Damn It was a privilege of age,
like staying up past nine o’clock
or sleeping in on Saturdays,
which only my father was allowed to do.
When I grew up and had my own house,
I could say Damn It all I wanted,
but first I would need a washing machine of my own
to earn the privilege of Damning It to whatever Hell
that misbehaving appliances go to
after they have washed their final load.

- Nina Erickson
January 2006
©2006