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I Knew I'd Sing
- Wesleyan University Press
- Chapter
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/ Knew I'dSing A few sashay, a few finagle. Some make whoopee, some make good. But most make diddly-squat. I tell you this is what I love about America—the words it puts in my mouth, the mouth where once my mother rubbed a word away with soap. The word was cunt. She stuck that bar of family-size in there until there was no hole to speak of, so she hoped. But still I'm full of it—the cunt, the prick, short u, short i, the words that stood for her and him. I loved the thing they must have done, the love they must have made, to make an example of me. After my lunch of Ivory I said vagina for a day or two, but knew from that day forth which word struck home like sex itself. I knew when I was big I'd sing a song in praise of cunt—I'd want to keep my word, the one with teeth in it. Forevermore (and even after I was raised) I swore nothing—but nothing—would be beneath me. 163 ...