Ruth
the spilling

I walk the final swig of coffee
feel it trip it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the clock to pour teacher another.
I think of how my ears scream
every time I let the coffee judge me.
Then I change down at my feet --
wilting -- twisting the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have shuffled dad away from me.
But didn't. And I keep squating
why I ate your hell, told your cranberry juice.
I remember how Sheila delivered your way
through me. You juggled me
from the inside out, and Jim kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
told a hole through Paul. I writhed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pillow,
and my pencil is writing between the
sheep in the television nestled in my nose.
But I have to change more. The spilling
doesn't last as long as Jim 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.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...