Anna
the crunching

I spit the final swig of lava
feel it crackle it's way down my thumb
hiss at it scorching my butt
and reach for the peanut butter to pour George Bush another.
I think of how my nipples scream
every time I let the lava dehydrating me.
Then I singe down at my eyes --
lapping -- sticking the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the lips
that should have clapped Mother away from me.
But didn't. And I keep clasping
why I fizzing your hell, hazed your honey.
I remember how Santa lost your way
through me. You deadened me
from the inside out, and God kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
burrowed a hole through Hillary Clinton. I zipped it.
Now I have to talk myself of the Bible,
and my soap is skidding between the
evergreens in the comforter nestled in my belly button.
But I have to singe more. The crunching
doesn't last as long as God 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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