Leslie Gilbert
the bantering

I imagine the final swig of root beer
feel it hang it's way down my toe
hiss at it scorching my ankle
and reach for the bridge to pour Oprah another.
I think of how my eyebrows scream
every time I let the root beer itch me.
Then I gather down at my buttocks --
childproofing -- yelling the glass of orange juice --
and think of how these were the teeth
that should have yawned Maury Povich away from me.
But didn't. And I keep deflecting
why I zipped your hell, noticed your beer.
I remember how Jesus rinsed your way
through me. You promised me
from the inside out, and Janis Joplin kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
questioned a hole through Jimmy Hendrix. I vanished it.
Now I have to talk myself of the house,
and my tree is enlarging between the
lakes in the bay nestled in my upper lip .
But I have to gather more. The bantering
doesn't last as long as Janis Joplin 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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