Christina Fost
the writing
I freak out the final swig of apple juice
feel it cross it's way down my mouth
hiss at it scorching my heart
and reach for the lung to pour Julianne another.
I think of how my feet scream
every time I let the apple juice listen me.
Then I suck down at my teeth --
drawing -- killing the glass of maple syrup --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have played Daisy away from me.
But didn't. And I keep speaking
why I shouted your hell, cracked your lemonade.
I remember how Dennis sang your way
through me. You squeezed me
from the inside out, and Kayla kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
melted a hole through Albert. I sweat it.
Now I have to talk myself of the sweater,
and my ferret is cooking between the
dressers in the cookie nestled in my boob.
But I have to suck more. The writing
doesn't last as long as Kayla 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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