Poems from the funeral 2/6

The Makings

The fright of a
Fuck!
or
Jesus!
screamed
into my mothering ear!

The words themselves
additional to the fact
of teenage anger
accessories to the fact
bring their own
particular pain,
spikes on the mallet
that beats my head.

Later, she admonishes
my tears of shock,
and shame, bourgeois fear:
'I didn't tell you to
Fuck off!"
Will I learn
the fine gradations?
Do I ever want to?
Must I?
Or will it soon be over?

I have become a prude for her
as my mother before me for me.