by Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I hate Mozart. Hate him with that healthy
pleasure one feels when exasperation has
crescendoed, when lungs, heart, throat,
and voice explode at once: I hate that! —
there's bliss in this, rapture. My shrink
tried to disabuse me, convinced I use Amadeus
as a prop: Think further, your father perhaps?
I won't go back, think of the shrink
with a powdered wig, pinched lips, mole:
a transference, he'd say, a relapse: so be it.
I hate broccoli, chain saws, patchouli, bra—
clasps that draw dents in your back, roadblocks,
men in black kneesocks, sandals and shorts—
I love hating that. Loathe stickers on tomatoes,
jerky, deconstruction, nazis, doilies. I delight
in detesting. And love loving so much after that.