by Janet Kuypers
the burningI take the final swig of vodkafeel it burn its 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 didnt. 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 youve 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 doesnt last as long as you do.
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train tracksI walk up to the train tracks. It is daylight, but the sun is behind the clouds. The whole sky is a blue-grey. The grass in the field is brown. It feels like straw. It scrapes my ankles when I walk through it. I walk on to the rocks that surround the tracks. It is hard to walk on them. My feet keep slipping. I look up. There are trees on the horizon. They dont look real. They look too small to be real. They look like toys. I look at the train tracks. The wooden rails are wet, even though it hasnt rained for days. I step over onto one of the rails. I start to walk down the tracks on the rail, like it is a balance beam. I quickly lose balance and fall. I look at the condition of the wooden rail. The edges are no longer sharp and sturdy: they are worn and soft. I see a pill bug crawling out from a crevasse in one of the rails. I choose not to get back up on the rail and try to balance. I walk along the side. The wind picks up. I dont feel like buttoning up my coat, so I overlap the edges around my waist and hold them down. I feel the wind and hear it hiss as it hits my ear and curls around. I realize that this is the only sound I have heard there. I look at the slats between the rails. They look like they are about to fall apart. I cant fathom that these tracks would be able to support a train. But then again, I dont remember the last time I saw a train on these tracks.
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I Look At The Letters Again1991
I remember when you asked me
I look at the letters again.
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Morning Will Be Kind |
Copyright Janet Kuypers. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission.
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