The worst word in the English language.
—The New Yorker, April 2012


To say the word out loud 
feels much like rubbing 
the flat palm of your hand across polyester. 
Like nails on a chalkboard.

Outmoded—I haven’t seen a chalkboard in years 
or polyester, except in fleece sweaters 
or a 50/50 blend. Must be why
it’s the worst word; the word, passé, the poor bastard 
word should be discarded.

Let’s throw it away, then, 
call it what it is slac, slæc, slakr. 
Or cut it some slack.
Recall the crease, the warmth 

of polyester, after an ironing. And grandmother 
who wore slacks and slips 
and nothing slack about her, mind you, 
not her pantsuits, not her hair reinforced with aerosol sprays. 
And who would ever wish 

to get rid of grandmother, 
with her pantyhose and brooches, 
perfumes and soap cakes, the apothecary 
of old-lady lotions smeared over the whole 
of her face in the evenings 

in preparation for bed time, 
her slacks folded, pressed and creased 
traded for slippers and a bath robe,
sleac, slach, laxus, lax,

and relax, teasing her hair with a pick into panels 
meant for rollers and each roller 
a story we’d heard so many rollers before. 

Later, when her cancer made her 
short of breath, she told on herself, 
her penchant for wrapping 
everything in tissue paper, 
even her diamond earrings, 
an anniversary gift, she, unintentionally, threw away. 

We’d all been there. Gone through all that garbage 
with her, and still she told it to us 
as if we might throw that gem 
of a story away, too.

Though we’ve remembered, remembered
the way *(s)leg- (to be slack) is 
remembered in slacks, remembered also in 

relaxare, becoming something altogether different,
relacher, relais, reles (something left 
behind, something 
remaining), something relished.

James E. Allman, Jr. - Slacks (The Burden of Light)

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