In a post a few months ago I mentioned Joanna Klink’s claim that there’s not a strong tradition of hate poetry. Here’s a funny, warm, nominal attempt from Julie Sheehan to prove an exception to the rule, which evolves (inevitably?) into something more complex than good clean angry fun.
I hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped
in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you. Continue reading