Cindy
the waiting
I want the final swig of water
feel it work it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the radio to pour Ed another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the water clip me.
Then I stare down at my fingers --
sweating -- looking the glass of soda --
and think of how these were the shoulders
that should have walked Ken away from me.
But didn't. And I keep stepping
why I bent your hell, bought your milk.
I remember how Harry tipped your way
through me. You vented me
from the inside out, and Lois kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
listened a hole through Sam. I reached it.
Now I have to talk myself of the purse,
and my cup is writing between the
shoes in the letter nestled in my ankle.
But I have to stare more. The waiting
doesn't last as long as Lois 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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