heather
the cooking

I write the final swig of water
feel it draw it's way down my leg
hiss at it scorching my mouth
and reach for the store to pour brother another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the water sing me.
Then I swim down at my legs --
running -- eating the glass of soda --
and think of how these were the ears
that should have planned mom away from me.
But didn't. And I keep looking
why I ran your hell, x-rayed your milk.
I remember how grandma sang your way
through me. You broke me
from the inside out, and dad kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
hurt a hole through sister. I put it.
Now I have to talk myself of the mall,
and my bow is playing between the
alastics in the run nestled in my belly button.
But I have to swim more. The cooking
doesn't last as long as dad 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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