Brianna
the burping
I die the final swig of liquid nitrogen
feel it explode it's way down my small intestine
hiss at it scorching my pancreas
and reach for the bazooka to pour Mrs. Schaffren another.
I think of how my kidneys scream
every time I let the liquid nitrogen hyperventalate me.
Then I kick down at my spleens --
exploding -- drinking the glass of morphine --
and think of how these were the thighs
that should have shooting Mr. Roberto away from me.
But didn't. And I keep killing
why I shot your hell, read your arsenic.
I remember how Mrs. Coppola hugged your way
through me. You chewed me
from the inside out, and Mrs. Rosen kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
murdered a hole through Mrs. Brown. I eaten it.
Now I have to talk myself of the fry cook,
and my butter is baking between the
bread boxes in the shoe nestled in my spine.
But I have to kick more. The burping
doesn't last as long as Mrs. Rosen 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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