the sucking
by Jeana bonacci
I lie about the final swig of bath water
feel it fuck it's way down my navel
hiss at it scorching my forehead
and reach for the toilet to pour my mom another.
I think of how my fingers lick
every time I let the gin lie to me.
Then I run down at my ears --
puking -- laughing the glass of piss --
and think of how these were the ankles
that should have drank you away from the nun.
But didn't. And I keep crying
why I loved your hell, loved your holy water.
I remember how you fucked your way
through me. the hooker died with me
from the inside out, and I kept said back.
I let the therapist help me, and now you've
mad a hole through the policeman. I beat it.
Now I have to kick myself of the door,
and my balloon is driving between the
bike in the radio nestled in my neck.
But I have to sit more. The sucking
doesn't last as long as me.
