Cajole: A Brief History

One potential ancestor…comes from a word meaning
“birdcage”…The ancestor of our word jail is in this
lineage as well. —Merriam-Webster

In medieval times, caress jumped on honk,
and cajole was born. It looked like

a balcony for a finch but turned out to be
a jail for language. Over the years,

as requests for cake and feather hats
wheedled their way through its bars and

came out lumpy with innuendo,
some women forgot how to talk

in a straight line. They schmoozed as they
canoodled, jostled as they cavorted,

and the men caught on, cajoling with a
doggedness they believed was seductive.

I won’t mince words—I’m cajole’s
blunt detractor, irked by wiles

that bypass no. I wince at its
jagged sound—the way it flips asshole

on its ear and adds a fool, that forceful
second syllable seizing my tongue.

The origins of cajole may be vague
as smoke, but it needles, like

a splinter embedded in your toe
until at last you coax it into the open.

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Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Valparaiso, Rattle, ONE ART, and As It Ought to Be. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and she was a finalist for the 2023 John Ridland Poetry Prize. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.