amy
the barfing
I run the final swig of punch
feel it swim it's way down my elbow
hiss at it scorching my knee
and reach for the dog to pour Emma another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the punch swing me.
Then I bite down at my teeth --
biting -- blinking the glass of Hawaiin punch --
and think of how these were the eyes
that should have blinking Miss Piggy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep sniffing
why I ran your hell, went your water.
I remember how dad swallowed your way
through me. You skipped me
from the inside out, and Connor kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
forgot a hole through Jack. I went it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dog,
and my pigeon is barking between the
barns in the owl nestled in my nose.
But I have to bite more. The barfing
doesn't last as long as Connor 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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