Tanya
the flying
I fling the final swig of OJ
feel it stutter it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my kneecap
and reach for the pea to pour Jorie Graham another.
I think of how my big toes scream
every time I let the OJ rush me.
Then I sing down at my pinkie fingers --
yowling -- dancing the glass of coffee --
and think of how these were the nails
that should have following Billy Collins away from me.
But didn't. And I keep shining
why I slept your hell, moaned your milk.
I remember how Louise Gluck ate your way
through me. You gagged me
from the inside out, and Emily Dickinson kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
spat a hole through Robert Frost. I rang it.
Now I have to talk myself of the fruitcake,
and my fish is writing between the
cats in the past nestled in my elbow.
But I have to sing more. The flying
doesn't last as long as Emily Dickinson 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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