Raven
the Stalking
I run the final swig of dishsoap
feel it jump it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my toe
and reach for the mother to pour husband another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the dishsoap skate me.
Then I crack down at my fingers --
falling -- laughing the glass of ooze --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have typed sister away from me.
But didn't. And I keep finding
why I blasted your hell, rotted your pudding.
I remember how mother worked your way
through me. You fell me
from the inside out, and president kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
laughed a hole through priest. I hollered it.
Now I have to talk myself of the table,
and my chair is bouncing between the
pants in the shirt nestled in my knee.
But I have to crack more. The Stalking
doesn't last as long as president do(es).
---
Original poem:
the burning
(written June 8, 1989)
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.
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