Baotri Nguyen
the skating

I laugh the final swig of sprite
feel it run it's way down my foot
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the skateboard to pour Mike Mo Capaldi another.
I think of how my hand scream
every time I let the sprite steal me.
Then I pop down at my mouth --
snorting -- running the glass of water --
and think of how these were the chin
that should have ollied Andrew Reynolds away from me.
But didn't. And I keep jumping
why I fell your hell, hung your milk.
I remember how Sean Malto heard your way
through me. You ate me
from the inside out, and Rick Howard kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through Devine Calloway. I screamed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the kitty,
and my wheel is crying between the
alarm clocks in the time nestled in my stomach.
But I have to pop more. The skating
doesn't last as long as Rick Howard 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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