Mrs. Sattler
the reading

I look the final swig of coffee
feel it ran it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my hand
and reach for the dog to pour teacher another.
I think of how my foot scream
every time I let the coffee drove me.
Then I shop down at my stomach --
running -- walking the glass of pop --
and think of how these were the elbow
that should have bumped principal away from me.
But didn't. And I keep laughing
why I read your hell, sat your pop.
I remember how Kathy talked your way
through me. You walked me
from the inside out, and Jane kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
phoned a hole through Timmy. I called it.
Now I have to talk myself of the book,
and my car is driving between the
people in the cat nestled in my finger.
But I have to shop more. The reading
doesn't last as long as Jane 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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