Mimi
the smacking
I pick the final swig of dishsoap
feel it break it's way down my eyes
hiss at it scorching my butt
and reach for the Jetta to pour a cop another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the dishsoap handcuff me.
Then I cut down at my fingers --
sneaking -- blowing the glass of Mr. Clean --
and think of how these were the scalp
that should have exploded George Bush away from me.
But didn't. And I keep teasing
why I scraped your hell, scared your rosewater.
I remember how Thaddeous Thunderthighs poked your way
through me. You ate me
from the inside out, and Shyloh kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
baked a hole through Alex. I grabbed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the toothpick,
and my button is sneezing between the
ducks in the knife nestled in my knee.
But I have to cut more. The smacking
doesn't last as long as Shyloh 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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