stacey
the waddling
I hop the final swig of milk
feel it jump it's way down my leg
hiss at it scorching my head
and reach for the fish to pour Mrs. Sims another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the milk run me.
Then I shovel down at my ears --
running -- galloping the glass of soda --
and think of how these were the toes
that should have laughed Miss Bruno away from me.
But didn't. And I keep crying
why I ran your hell, backed your orange juice.
I remember how mallory hiccupped your way
through me. You darted me
from the inside out, and mom kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
sang a hole through dad. I loved it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dog,
and my frog is hiding between the
cats in the ball nestled in my butt.
But I have to shovel more. The waddling
doesn't last as long as mom 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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