jessica lowber
the crazying
I sing the final swig of lime juice
feel it linger it's way down my finger
hiss at it scorching my stomach
and reach for the hamock to pour yupee another.
I think of how my pupils scream
every time I let the lime juice last me.
Then I fall down at my elbows --
fasting -- finding the glass of honey water --
and think of how these were the hairs
that should have tiptoed vergin mary away from me.
But didn't. And I keep simmering
why I milked your hell, sort your sweat.
I remember how comidian left your way
through me. You ached me
from the inside out, and king kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
swallowed a hole through queen. I dripped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the willow tree,
and my me is following between the
us in the bench nestled in my dimples.
But I have to fall more. The crazying
doesn't last as long as king 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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