the rolling
I memorized the final swig of water
feel it misunderstand it's way down my head
hiss at it scorching my eyes
and reach for the pond to pour myself another.
I think of how my hands scream
every time I let the water allow me.
Then I smile down at my feet --
running -- rolling the glass of mother --
and think of how these were the elbow
that should have vanished myself away from me.
But didn't. And I keep rolling
why I past your hell, away your juice.
I remember how daughter yesterday your way
through me. You maintain me
from the inside out, and daughter kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
past a hole through grandmother. I cracked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the yard,
and my tree is shining between the
stairs in the garden nestled in my nose.
But I have to smile more. The rolling
doesn't last as long as daughter 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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