When He Was Angry, My Father Would Say Motherf—er
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WHEN HE WAS ANGRY, MY FATHER WOULD SAY MOTHERF—ER
He didn't want his wordsto clock the coal mines he crawled from."Cussing is crass," he said,"something low people do."Unless I mentioned his dead brother,I never even saw him angry.
But if you put a gun to my headand told me to be more specific,I'd say he found them ordinary,boring sounds white trash spitthrough unbrushed teeth and swollen tongues.
He held on to a lot from his childhoodand here I am holding it, stilltrying to be the son he wantedto get drunk with, long afterI knew the drinking would kill us both. [End Page 109]
G. M. PALMER lives with his wife and daughters on a poodle farm in North Florida. His second book, Olyver Currant, is available from Art City Books. His poetry and prose have appeared in Literary Matters, Goliad, Monologging, Grub Street Grackle, Tahoma Literary Review, Trop, and elsewhere. Find him at gmpalmer. com or @gm_palmer.
