Michael Rathburn
the rubbing
I run the final swig of massage oil
feel it jump it's way down my back
hiss at it scorching my backside
and reach for the sigh to pour Sarah another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the massage oil play me.
Then I giggling down at my thighs --
snuggling -- caressing the glass of chocolate sauce --
and think of how these were the shoulders
that should have kissed Sarah away from me.
But didn't. And I keep touching
why I hugged your hell, kissed your water.
I remember how Michael spilled your way
through me. You pinched me
from the inside out, and Sarah kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
tickled a hole through Michael. I licked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the laugh,
and my bed is teasing between the
towels in the smile nestled in my lips.
But I have to giggling more. The rubbing
doesn't last as long as Sarah 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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