queef poem

when i was a wee lad i worked in one of many
kitchens and there amongst
the dirt & sweat of the summer months
i was toiled away at the dishes one afternoon
about to work with my ex-con cook
on the preparation for the evening
smorgasbord
whatever that might have been.

the main waitress came through the swinging door
which blocked those drunks from the bar
from walking straight into the kitchen
and she slapped me on the stomach
making some remark about missing the flatness of
a young guy’s stomach during sex
&
as if that didn’t disgust me and make me uncomfortable
enough
she then grabbed a can of cranberry sauce.

the bulk-sized cans of cranberry sauce were quite large
and they needed to be opened by one of those can openers that in a
restaurant kitchen
are attached to the preparation table.

she pulled me over from the dishes with one hand
and got close to me when she was opening the can with the other,
& with that ever-so-attractive breath of cigarettes and liquor
she whispered to me, beginning to laugh while saying it to me---
“what does that sound like?”
the sound which was something like a “thhwerp” or quite possibly a
“phlerrp”
created by the cranberry sauce sliding out of the can all at once
seemed to make this wretched wasted waitress
laugh quite a bit
regardless of the fact that i wasn’t
and so, i gave up in guessing in my own head---disinterested.

“i don’t know, it sounds like crabnberry sau…”

she cut me off saying---

“it sounds like a pussy fart!
sounds like a queef, buddy, doesn’t it?”
at the time i didn’t know what a “queef” was
and it apparently made her laugh quite a bit
and by default
that made me quite sick---
if anything because i had to see her yellow teeth
(the ones she had left)
when she was laughing.

now that the term has been brought out into the mainstream
by the brilliant guys at south park
i felt that i could share my own story
my testament regarding the
queef.