by Janet Kuypers

the burning 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.

train tracks I 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 don’t 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 hasn’t 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 don’t 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 can’t fathom that these tracks would be able to support a train. But then again, I don’t remember the last time I saw a train on these tracks.

I Look At The Letters Again 1991 “This isn’t supposed to happen,ּ I said under my breath as I threw the letters aside. Thoughts quickly rushed through my mind as quickly as the nights passed in the Arizona heat. Why do I even save these letters? Why do I keep reading them over and over again? Why do I hold them to my mouth, hoping that you may slip out between the words, touch my face, kiss my lips? I picked up the letters again. I remember when you asked me about my political and religious beliefs. You asked me about my past and my dreams for the future. It seemed as if you wanted to know every little detail about me, so that you could only love me more. I was happy to tell you. I look at the letters again. I hold them once more to my lips -- but this time, not in the hope that you may touch me, but in the hope that I may be able to touch you. I kiss the letters. I can’t put them down.

Morning Will Be Kind D.S. 1991 Kiss me, stoned and drunk flesh is the answer Listen to the wisdom, moaning in my foreign bed and the scent scent and smell of new skin An apex of blinding then close your eyes wondering vaguely why You let me enter, hoping morning will be kind

Copyright Janet Kuypers. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission.

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