robin
the swimming
I cry the final swig of black tea
feel it drink it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my nose
and reach for the cloak to pour fiddler another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the black tea swing me.
Then I drive down at my breasts --
swallowing -- running the glass of ocean water --
and think of how these were the limbs
that should have walked musician away from me.
But didn't. And I keep playing
why I drove your hell, dove your petroleum.
I remember how band leader arched your way
through me. You writhed me
from the inside out, and poet kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through teacher. I stroked it.
Now I have to talk myself of the pool,
and my book is stealing between the
hands in the pen nestled in my belly.
But I have to drive more. The swimming
doesn't last as long as poet 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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