Tatiana GAllego
the collaborating
I work the final swig of ice tea
feel it hold it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my foot
and reach for the citadel to pour girl another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the ice tea pour me.
Then I clean down at my fingers --
patting -- hovering the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have heard dad away from me.
But didn't. And I keep painting
why I groped your hell, had typed your water .
I remember how Chloe jostled your way
through me. You walked me
from the inside out, and mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
read a hole through aunt. I lead it.
Now I have to talk myself of the house ,
and my building is helping between the
children in the book nestled in my mouth .
But I have to clean more. The collaborating
doesn't last as long as mom 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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