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Naked as the day the doctor trimmed the chord,
determining the structure of my belly button
and separating two beings that had been joined as one,
my mother and I,
I didn’t feel dirty.
I didn’t feel dirty as the warmth of someone else’s skin,
a closeness I can’t remember knowing
but I think I must have once in a life, in a womb, in a synthesized reality I remember like a dream but speak of like a memory,
that skin, as it touches mine, I don’t feel dirty.
I don’t feel dirty saying vagina.
To me saying ball-sack isn’t as easy, its funny--but like the lesson we’ve been taught without a reason,
drilled in without a cause,
tested without study but plenty of practice,
it could be normal, ball-sack,
like the doors of our minds closed on those with open legs.
We judge ourselves most of all, but somewhere in the topsy-turvey night time full of groans and sighs of pleasure, loneliness, and supposed dignity--this individual unhappiness becomes vocal--
a foghorn amplified bullhorn whistle
blowing in the sight of suspect of another’s actions, suddenly now “transgressions.”
I didn’t feel dirty.
I don’t want to feel dirty.
When we say slut we are leaping backwards in the doorway of gender equality,
judging others for not adhering to our specific sexual code of conduct.
To judge another for not following your rules
makes it dirty, when vocabulary connected mindset remains the only thing in need of a wash or bath or reexamination.