Sarah
the pulling

I jump the final swig of coffee
feel it run it's way down my nose
hiss at it scorching my hand
and reach for the teacup to pour girl another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the coffee swim me.
Then I play down at my legs --
melting -- cutting the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have jumped boy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep talking
why I swam your hell, ran your pop.
I remember how aunt pitched your way
through me. You jumped me
from the inside out, and uncle kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through cousin. I swam it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dog,
and my cat is walking between the
books in the scissor nestled in my thumb.
But I have to play more. The pulling
doesn't last as long as uncle 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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