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.
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