Missy Schmitt
the swooshing
I to eat the final swig of water
feel it to laugh it's way down my toe
hiss at it scorching my belly button
and reach for the banana to pour CJ another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the water to know me.
Then I to go down at my wrists --
mowing -- snoring the glass of castor oil --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have lived garbage man away from me.
But didn't. And I keep glowing
why I sang your hell, sat your honey.
I remember how Miss Schmitt drove your way
through me. You scoured me
from the inside out, and Ronald McDonald kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
baked a hole through Barnacle Bill. I fried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the jeep,
and my cake is flying between the
platters in the paper nestled in my nose.
But I have to to go more. The swooshing
doesn't last as long as Ronald McDonald 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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