Vocabulary Lesson

I lower my eyes and head
so she won’t call on me—
the kindergarten nun—her face
squared off in stiff, crimped cloth,
heavy black wimple.

She holds up a flash card
with a picture
of a silvery chup.

Her crusty finger lifts my chin,
peanut smell on her breath,
eyes glaring at me
to say out loud
the word she wants me
to say
as the other kids do.

I stare at the
thing with the hole
where water pours
out. No English word pours
from my mouth—
not even one drop.

Chup, I say, in Hungarian.
She shakes her head,
a white hair by her eye.
Her finger waves no, no.
This I understand.

“Not tap,” she says.
Not tap, I say.
“No!”
No!

She turns the card over,
points to each letter, voices
“F – A – U – C – E – T.”

Not tap, I say.
She pokes at the card,
says “Fau-cet.”
looks at me,
the stupid immigrant girl
and her garlicky sandwiches
on rough-cut bread.

I learn too late
how to unclog
my throat—
spill it as they say—

and that c in Faucet
can be pronounced k,
to sound like that word,
we know, should never
gush from our mouths,
even if with
Hungarian accent—
Fauk eet!